


A Last Autumn

by alostautumn2k16



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, ChanSoo - Freeform, Death, Love, M/M, Pianist Chanyeol, Reaper - Freeform, Romance, True Love, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9079486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alostautumn2k16/pseuds/alostautumn2k16
Summary: "When you become a reaper, you will not feel pain, fear or suffering. You will not age or suffer sickness. You will possess the power of time and nature at your disposal for the adequate fulfilment of your duties.” Kyungsoo is a Grim Reaper. One day, he finds a scroll with a familiar name.





	1. The Yellow Ribbon

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story is definitely inspired by that drama everyone's talking about - Goblin! But with very obvious modifications to a Reaper's capabilities on my part.
> 
> It is multi-chaptered, but shouldn't be too long. So parting from the time I spent writing, and the words I stitched together, anything you recognise is not mine. 
> 
> Please enjoy! (and stream EXO!)

*

“When you become a reaper, you will not feel pain, fear or suffering. You will not age or suffer sickness. You will possess the power of time and nature at your disposal for the adequate fulfillment of your duties.” 

The Reaper elegantly poured the hot tea into the marble cup across the trembling recruit. The liquid was a rusty red colour with a bitter and metallic smell. 

“However,” the cup was slid across, “For your duties, you will lose all the memories of your previous life. You will sacrifice the capacity to feel love and warmth. You will live an eternity serving as the bridge between life and death, living each day knowing you are a step away from hell and paradise. You will bear this punishment alone until the day comes when the deity deems your soul as free. Now please—“

His speech was interrupted by the sound of the man sobbing loudly.

The Reaper’s dark eyes glistened – not with sympathy, but distaste. He waited for a moment, out of forced politeness, before pressing on with his welcome.

“Now please drink the tea and take your place as the collector of souls.”

The man wiped his nose, still shaking as he spoke. He glanced straight into the Reaper’s eyes, in a fruitless attempt to appeal. “I did—didn’t mean to k—kill him,” he nodded his head, clasping his hands together as tears continued to roll down his cheeks, “Please, have mercy. It was a—an accident.”

_You meant it_. The Reaper had watched the tragedy unfold from a bus stop across the street. He’d held the pair of cards with the names of the dead in a single black envelope on his lap, with fingers almost blue from the cold. Midnight shifts were not his favourite – especially not when he had to carry out his duties in a circumstance as gruesome as murder. 

“The reason behind your demise is meaningless. Once you die, your fate is not yours to choose.” The Reaper responded coldly. 

“Will I r—really forget then?” The man managed, hands unclasping in defeat, “Will I really forget it all once I drink this?” 

The Reaper nodded.

He hesitated momentarily – and then the recruit did as many others had done before him and swallowed the tea in a single gulp. There was a look of momentary pain on his face before— peace. His eyes, which had been irritably red from the tears, appeared to clear whilst his shoulders that had been hunched and tight, lowered and loosened. 

The excruciating weight of human feeling from a million past lives dissipated in one gulp. 

Admittedly, it was the Reaper’s favourite part of this entire process. There was something unspeakably enriching about seeing souls in peace; the pain of humanity and living reduced to a distant dull feeling. 

*

The Reaper – or more specifically, Reaper Kim (from the 21st batch) lived a far more dutiful life than other Reapers. 

He consistently outperformed his peers, having obtained Reaper of the Month no more than seven consecutive months in a row. This was an admirable accolade for someone of his short period of service, hence why he’d been offered the opportunity to carry greater responsibilities such as welcoming new recruits. 

Everyone in the community had a different theory as to why it was that this Reaper tried so hard: whilst some believed that it was because of a cold and privately competitive tendency, others postulated that it was his way to try and achieve greater penance for the wrongdoing that had condemned him to the career in the first place. 

The truth was far simpler: unlike other, more sociable reapers, Reaper Kim from the 21st batch had no life outside of his job. He attended few gatherings, therefore made few friends, and always seemed to be travelling. This was something none of the other Reapers enjoyed. The idea of leaving their assigned cities and towns to venture where they had to read new maps and speak new languages petrified some. Not this Reaper. Hence why he’d managed to clock up a record amount of work because of his eagerness for any out-of-town jobs that happened to come his way. 

Today, the Reaper was visiting Reaper Kim from the 20th batch. Having risen through the ranks, this Reaper was now a senior amidst his group and had recently acquired the title of Manager Kim. In his new role, he had shed the dull repetitive chores of a foot soldier and was now the man at the centre, ensuring that the information centers were running and the Reapers in his district were tasked with their monthly set of souls. 

He befriended Reaper Kim from the 21st batch after frequently encountering him at the office. After all, the young Reaper always seemed to be looking for work. 

“So, how was it then? Recruiting your first Reaper?” Manager Kim asked, having coached the other through the task all of last week. 

The Reaper had been reflecting on it all morning. “Strange,” he answered eventually, watching the other man who was busy packing up books, envelopes and scrolls into his monthly box, “He was very upset. For a moment, I wondered if he was going to drink it.”

Manager Kim laughed, noting the thoughtful look in the Reaper’s eyes. “Ah, they always drink it. Death is the point where all the pain from the lives you lived truly accumulates. And it grows here,” he placed a finger on his chest, “None of that obnoxious hurt from blood and bones – no, it’s the pain of a human soul. It’s unbearable.” He shook his head softly; “I’ve recruited many who at the first promise of freedom from the memories, gulped down the tea before I finished the welcoming pledge!”

“That pledge is too long anyway,” Reaper Kim smiled, helping his senior pack the last few things into his box, “I studied it for two days straight and I still think I forgot a line.... anyway, I can pack the rest in.” 

Behind the front desk, Manager Kim’s phone was ringing. With a grateful smile, he disappeared, thereby leaving the young Reaper to complete his own pack. Listening faintly to the exchange of voices from behind the office, the Reaper neatly placed the last few books into his box only to notice a lone scroll in the box beside his own. Clearly, it had been mistakenly left out. At least, he assumed so for it was rare to have something so strangely out of place in the proximity of his senior’s neat and organised worktop. His unfamiliar attraction to the scroll also had something to do with the yellow ribbon around it. He wasn’t sure he’d had to deal with any of those before. 

“Manager Kim. Is this mine as well?” He picked it up, sensing an even stronger need to place it into his box. This time he reasoned that he was always looking for extra work anyway; so this was almost charitable. 

No answer came from the office to change his intention.

So, with a shrug, Reaper Kim placed the scroll into his box and vanished. 

*  
He would encounter the scroll with the yellow ribbon again later on in the evening.

In the comfort of his study, the Reaper organised his month of work with immeasurable precision. He sorted the souls according to the date and time of their deaths – setting alarms and organising tickets for excursions along the way. It was rather morbid in retrospect, but he was as used to his system as he was to the city he lived in. He didn’t even register the souls or their manners of death as he had at the beginning. Once they were under his care, they were spirits in transition. They held no footprint in the world he resided in. 

Therefore, he could play the bridge and be nothing more. 

Sipping a coffee as he filled in his diary, the Reaper then remembered the last scroll that had fallen some way away from the top of the pile. It was striking because of its yellow ribbon. The ribbons around the scrolls did not have known meanings. However, he had noted that those with the brighter colors tended to have the sadder deaths. 

And in his opinion, there was no colour brighter than yellow. 

He fished it out the box and with his usual disinterest unraveled it, eyes skimming straight to the date and time of collection: _November 20th, 7pm. PLACE OF DEATH: The Blossom Theatre._

His gaze then addressed the owner of the scroll: 

_PARK, CHANYEOL_

Instantly, a sensation grew in the centre of the Reaper’s chest. It was unexplainable – for it was a feeling dissimilar from the limited set he felt on a daily basis. He lowered the scroll, blinking avidly, before lifting it again to the light. The feeling was – maddening – and he found himself quickly repeating the name of the soul over and over in his mind as if urging the feeling to grow bigger and reveal itself. 

He denied that he liked the sound of the name – how the sound of the syllables themselves was enough to bolster the feeling. It was as if they were strings on an instrument and he was striking each one, fascinated by the novel sound. 

_BEEP!_

The Reaper dropped the scroll at the loud sound of traffic lights bleeping. Panicked, he reached and grabbed it as it was carried away by the wind, only to note that his fingers were brushing against rough cement instead of soft carpet. 

He looked up in shock. He wasn’t in his study anymore. In fact, he was in the city – outside in the cold and it was late. Glancing around the high street dazedly, the Reaper took a step forwards, only to be knocked back by a newsagent’s glass door swinging open. A young man emerged from the shop, a tall one with dark messy hair, with a bottle in one hand and a bag full of bottles in the other. He strode away quickly, taking long swigs from his drink. 

The Reaper immediately identified him as the soul. He followed him with little thought as to why, seemingly more interested in the question of why _not_. 

But the sensation in his chest grew only with the distance that shortened between him and the figure. It was more palpable – and easier to describe with words.

He felt fearful. But strangely not for himself. 

*

The Reaper followed the man to the pier. He watched as the figure swayed across the empty boardwalk, tossed side-to-side by the breeze. It was a hellishly windy night – and the sounds of the waves were more terrifying against the creak of the wood beneath his shoes. 

The scene made the Reaper feel drowsy. He’d never liked the seaside, and now the weight in his chest was stifling. The other man was less affected. His actions were measured – as if this late-night event was something he was more than accustomed to. Swinging one leg first over the railing, the young man dropped the plastic bag of bottles, balanced himself and sat looking over the rocks where the waves were attacking the beach. 

“Are you happy now?” The man’s voice was deep and bitter, barely audible against the roar of the wind and water, “You had to take everything didn’t you? You couldn’t be satisfied!”

Even the waves couldn’t match his fury.

It was a type of anger the Reaper had only seen in those that were grieving a loss. 

Consciously, he took a step forwards, observing the way the man pressed against the railings, fingers flushed red from the cold. His eyes were closed, the lines across his face fraught with thought. Removing one hand from the railing, the man drank long and hard from his bottle. 

The wind saw the opportunity. With one strong gust, it pushed against him, knocking the form out of his body. 

The Reaper recalled seeing it all happen slowly. From the shrill whistle of the wind, to the miniscule detail of the man’s fingers losing grip of the metal railing as his body was angled forwards to the rocks. The image triggered the sensation in his chest to explode with unbearable heat. He reacted fast – and his mind went blank as his eyes shut. 

It was over in moments. Against the dying sound of the storm, the Reaper felt his body tremble as he opened his eyes. The wind had died down now; the sound of the waves seemed calmer. Horrified, he observed where he’d instinctually outstretched his hand. At the end of his vision, beyond his shaking fingertips, laid the young man across the boardwalk safe and away from the railing.

With parted lips, he exhaled, before glancing back and shielding his face from the blinding shine of a white light as the pier was filled with the sound of car brakes. 

Across, Park Chanyeol laid, body aching from where an unknown force had struck him and sent him sprawling onto the boardwalk. 

Lifting a hand to his hurting head, the man turned to the sight of where a car was approaching. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the centre of the blurry white headlights, where he observed the outline of a figure - a dark shadow more familiar to him than his own. It turned to face him.

Instantly, the ache in his chest deepened.

_“Chanyeol, what are you doing!”_

The worried cries of his friend faded in the distance as he sat up, hands reaching for the silhouette that had already disappeared.

*


	2. Schubert's Piano Sonata No. 13 in A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter from now onwards will be titled with a music piece that inspired/featured in the text.
> 
> Thank you for being patient and happy 2017!

Past lives were a common discussion topic between Reapers during district socials. 

Unlike his colleagues, the Reaper had not been particularly taken by the topic. It was bizarre to him how they could overlook the obvious truth that should instantly dismiss any lingering curiosities about their past existence. They were Reapers because they were being punished. How could he think of a past life he had so obviously destroyed?

But the moment he used his abilities to save the soul at the pier – he knew that he had committed something equally as misguided. 

Having returned to the comforts of his home, the Reaper reflected on the night with silent intensity. The ache in his chest was softer – but it hardened at any thought associated with the man at the pier. Hence why it was such a pity that he couldn’t release the image of the man from his mind at all. 

Irrespective of how hard he tried to distract himself – how viciously he tempted his imagination to fill his head with nonsense – it remained completely obsessed with tracing the picture of the soul that had been printed in his memory. So, he succumbed, deciding that if it were all he would think about, then he would think about it a lot. 

This led him to contemplate of how the man wasn’t supposed to die tonight. So was the Reaper fated to save him? 

The theory made no sense. But did any of it? Before he’d noticed it, the hours had flown by and yet the same thoughts and images circulated his brain. In the darkness of his room, the Reaper thought then of the welcoming pledge he’d uttered coldly to the new recruit he’d met yesterday. The meaningless words – or so he thought – that he’d relayed. 

_‘You will sacrifice the capacity to feel love and warmth.’_

Perhaps this was what it was like to feel. He couldn’t remember it after all. Was it this irritating? Overwhelming? 

Exhaling, the Reaper tossed a glance at the time – and then at the city directory that happened to sit beside his alarm clock. He summoned it to his desk and found it opening to the exact page that contained the name of the soul. “Curiosity killed the cat,” the Reaper muttered to himself, a hand rubbing tired eyes, 

“Good thing I’m already dead.”

*

The soul lived in a beautiful central apartment in the city. The Reaper knew the area well, having strolled through the street multiple times on his way to his favourite eateries. Oddly, despite having never collected a soul from the street himself, he frequently encountered Reapers at work on his wanders.

It was entertaining watching the living walk by, believing enviously that those that lived behind the glossy black doors were living perfect, untroubled lives, as their gazes skipped over the clump of invisible Reapers eating sandwiches on the doorsteps of a house. 

Entering the apartment, the Reaper peered into the dark hall as he walked down, wary that he was technically trespassing and should therefore complete his investigation swiftly. The point of the visit was to satisfy his curiosities – nothing more. However, one step into the living room and the sight of the piano was enough to reverse that aim altogether.

He had to repress a gasp, unable to bear how large the object seemed against the size of everything else in the room. As he stepped across, he heard crushing beneath his shoes and winced at the sight of paper. He scooped it up, identified it as sheet music and glanced around again – this time noting the various trophies on shelves. 

_“So the soul is a musician.”_

Again another first. He was yet to collect one of those. 

The room was illuminated by street lamplight leaking through half-drawn curtains. The Reaper observed the room in silence, fingers lightly grazing the surface of the furniture, as he sensed the feeling in his chest and noted its surprising absence.

He felt peaceful. Surveying the walls, it was there that he noted a bulletin board swamped with photographs. It was difficult to see in the dark but he spotted a concentrated pool of photos, with the single face of the soul in most of them. 

As expected, seeing the soul’s face struck an unspeakable feeling inside him and the Reaper found himself clutching his chest. 

He turned and walked out of the nearest door, and reversed into the soul’s bedroom. This should have been the end of it. But the Reaper found himself turning on his heel and glancing around the bedroom in silent awe. It felt much bigger than the living room; and much warmer. There was something cozy about the dim amber of the bedside lamp and the thick sheets that encased the dozing soul whom slept, softly snoring, face down on his pillow.

Blinking, the Reaper took a step forwards, away, and then forwards again as he readthe note on the soul’s bedside table.

_Sleep well Chanyeol. Also, please be ready by 9. JD._

Glancing around the room, the Reaper approached the soul and gulped nervously.

There, he recalled the pain he’d felt at the sight of his _almost_ -fall. Whilst he’d expected something similar, considering their proximity, only a dull sensation remained now. But the contemplations were there, unshakeable, how this soul was different to other souls, how he felt something he could not explain despite the vast amount of exposure he had to humans, non-humans, mortality and immortality. 

He knew then that there was only one way he could truly answer his questions. 

Grim Reapers did not enjoy physical contact due their ability to foresee a person’s life at a single touch. Although the Reaper was certain that if he’d been presented with this dilemma in the morning, he would’ve considered choosing differently, he found himself unable to dissuade himself at the all-important moment. 

With a soft inhale, and with diminishing interest in the potential consequence of his action, the Reaper leaned forwards and placed a gentle hand on the soul’s head.

For a moment, there was nothing. 

And then there was everything.

It was fast; dizzying even. He saw the soul as an infant – a young boy – innocent pranks and seaside visits. They sped by at a steady pace, nostalgic and airy.

The images only started to shake when he saw his own face.

Suddenly, the pace of the images slowed and voices crept up between the gaps of colors and movement. 

*

_He was bored of his job. Administrative jobs were boring anyway and he had somehow landed in the most boring one of all._

_As HR support for student recruitment, he was tasked with tending to all the auditionees for the all-star music department. Autumn was recruitment period, and he was beginning to associate the subzero temperatures outside with the irritating lines of students that turned up at his desk each day._

_Sighing, he glanced up as another walked through the door. He was tall, dressed in an over-sized grey polyester suit. Already unimpressed, the clerk lowered his gaze, biting back a comment about how irritating the sound of the boy’s small suitcase was as he dragged it behind him._

_The stranger’s hand on his desk eventually had to take his attention._

_“I’m Chanyeol—Park Chanyeol. Here for my audition.” He was breathless and stuttering. The usual then._

_Typing in his name into the system, the clerk sighed softly. “You’re an hour early.”_

_“Oh really?” His face lit up, surprising the clerk who had expected a far different response, “Well that’s a first. Can I sit around for a bit then?”_

_Still unsmiling, he nodded. Chanyeol took a seat. They were in silence for a while before the other spoke._

_“I’m performing Beethoven on the piano. Hopefully that goes well.”_

_Having seen the reception to Beethoven on previous occasions, the clerk could only respond with a blank look._

_“No?” Chanyeol frowned._

_“I didn’t say anything.”_

_“Uh, Lizst then?” The same unsmiling look was offered, “...uh, Mozart? Maybe...Schubert?”_

_The latter prompted the clerk to shrug – which consequently made the other smile._

_“Ah, Schubert then. Cheers for that.”_

_As the last student of the day, the clerk was offered the opportunity to sit in through Chanyeol’s audition because he was tasked with compiling the entire administrative file._

_Despite initial hiccups involving a few stray music sheets and a cuss word or two, Chanyeol played the piano – opting for Schubert – and acing it effortlessly._

_The clerk wasn’t sure he’d seen anything so stunning in his life. In his role, he had watched many auditions – even many talented pianists, but never had he seen someone love it as much as Park Chanyeol. Whilst the rest came drained and trembling from holding their parents’ burdening expectations, he came with a love for music that vibrated through him, and breathed life into the pieces he played. The clerk was certain that he would have probably succeeded even with dreaded Beethoven._

_At the end, the clerk watched with a smile as the review panel privately praised the auditionee._

_He chased after him afterwards. “Don’t come here,” he advised the other as his words were met with a confused look, “You’re... better than this school.”_

_“Uh, I don’t think you’re supposed to say that.”_

_“I’m a temp. I can say what I want.”_

_This made the young man smile. The clerk returned the smile._

(‘Those weren’t the soul’s memories,’ the Reaper thought.)

— and there, the images were in motion again, spiraling forwards – flashes of the soul’s young face. There were visions of performances, late-night practices, bows and smiles, tears, friends, families – and then it slowed slightly at the sight of trees and autumns.

_Two figures huddled together in the cold, hands entwined._

And then it hurtled forwards again, the visions shaky and unreadable before halting at the blurred image of a hysterically angry man; similar to the state he’d seen him in the previous night:

_"I hate him, I hate him. I can’t believe he’d do this.” The tears wouldn’t stop and he cried alone, screamed alone, and then the words he wished he could tell him to his face,_

_“I’ll never forgive him.”_

There, the ache in the Reaper’s chest reemerged and he gasped – jolted out of the scene as he stumbled back, shaking, eyes full of tears.

He stepped out of the room, wiping his face, dizzy and breathless, before realising that the sun had risen and the living room was fully visible.

The features that he swore he’d recalled from the previous night were mostly gone. In fact, the room was largely empty parting from the piano and the music scores. There were no trophies, no real furniture, and no photographs. It was this element he found himself yearning for the most – and as his gaze hovered over the empty wall, the Reaper placed a hand over his mouth as he heard a lost voice pipe up from behind him,

_“Put them all up there. So I can see them. All the autumns. My inspiration.”_

He turned with eyes full of tears, towards the piano that was now ghosted with dust,

_“In fact, I’ll write the last Autumn Sonata just for you.” Chanyeol was on the piano, playing light melodies, smiling brightly at him, “The best one.”_

At the sound of buzzing from downstairs, the Reaper flinched and instantly vanished away from the scene. 

*

“.... so you understand don’t you? You’re incredibly talented, Chanyeol. But we can’t wait around forever for these pieces. You will perform the whole thing – if not, we will take what you have already.”

The words, harsh as they were, had been what Chanyeol had expected to hear since the meeting was called. Perhaps this was what softened the blow of the crushing threat to his career and creative rights. Or maybe— just maybe, he couldn’t give a shit about it.

He sat at the meeting, eyelids barely open, fingertips consciously drumming against the arm of the chair as he thought of the apparition he’d seen last night. It was the thought that had occupied his mind all morning – in fact, he was certain he’d dreamt about it too. 

How for a moment – he thought he’d seen him. 

Chanyeol grimaced, hands instantly reaching to wipe his eyes as he recognised that the meeting table’s attention had returned to him.

“So, what do you say son?” Manager Lee had always been kind to him. Patient. Understanding. Not anymore though.

“I— I don’t know. I don’t.” Straightening up from his chair, the pianist offered a sad smile as he threw his hands up in defeat, “I haven’t been able to write _one_ decent thing since... in years, and you can’t expect me to show people something that doesn’t measure up to what I’ve given before. You can’t just force me to compose.”

Manager Lee’s face darkened as he sighed. “I believe we just did, Chanyeol. Finish your pieces or don’t expect to see your name at our next showcase.”

The meeting concluded. 

Chanyeol burst through the agency doors, fuming, with Jongdae following behind him. He was a singer, represented by the agency – successful, happy, and somehow still his friend despite the many lengths Chanyeol had gone through to shake off all his relationships.

“Why are you being like this?” Jongdae hollered behind him, before running forwards and grabbing his arm, “They’re trying with you, don’t you see that? You’ve given them no choice but to put their foot down.”

“I don’t care anymore,” the pianist scowled, shaking the other away as he continued walking, “I’m done with all of this.”

“With music?”

“With _trying_ Jongdae!” Chanyeol yelled out in frustration, eyes lifting to the skies that seemed perpetually grey, “I will never be able to finish the composition. I will never be able to write anything decent again. So what’s the point?”

Jongdae didn’t respond. The pianist stood on the pavement before shaking his head as he began to sob.

His friend would reach him eventually, wrapping a comforting arm around his back. 

“I know it’s tough for you. This time of year.”

“It doesn’t get easier. You’d think right?” Chanyeol laughed, wiping his nose, as he stepped away from the other, “Two years and I’d just laugh about it like they do in films.”

“It will never be that easy.” 

The pianist glanced downwards, shaking his head as he spoke, “I... I wrote this entire thing for him, Jongdae. I will never be able to finish it. When he was still here, I used to just hear the music, you know? It’s been empty since then. And it will stay that way now.” 

And he couldn’t. After two years of producing soulless elevator music to satisfy his agency, he couldn’t bear the thought of sacrificing the compositions he still had left. 

After all they were the last few remaining pieces of him that the world hadn’t yet claimed.

*  
Chanyeol would spend the rest of the day in his favourite cafe. 

The Reaper would know, having been sat in the same cafe (also his favourite) all morning, and being stunned by the man walking in and ordering a latte. He then spent the rest of the time watching him, lips trembling, as he struggled with the experience of the night before. He’d called Manager Kim for assistance – guidance even. They were supposed to meet here but the appearance of the soul had thrown his plan into disarray.

But the soul looked like he’d been crying.

Instantly, the feeling in the Reaper’s chest began to stir. Yet, he couldn’t look away, finding that his glance naturally motioned towards the dark-haired man. At the first instance that a look was returned, the Reaper found himself sighing, having chosen to remain invisible for the meeting.

Chanyeol on the other hand had suffered from a sense that he’d been watched since entering the cafe.

He sipped his coffee, paying a glance at the familiar spot he used to occupy with – 

The pianist’s thoughts were paused upon hearing a familiar tune on the radio. It was a Schubert piano sonata – one of his favourites. It wasn’t the Schubert piece he played frequently. No; the only time he recalled attempting the piece was because of a mistaken printout during his audition for – 

Tears pricked the corner of the pianist’s eyes again as he smiled softly, fingers tapping against the wooden table in harmony with the music. 


	3. And I'm Here

A Reaper’s loss of memories was an unsung blessing. _“The pain would be unbearable,”_ he recalled the words of one of his seniors, _“To carry the sorrows, the fears, the losses of those you wronged. Alongside your own guilt. No amount will make me want to remember.”_ He recalled it then, how the group of Reapers had lifted a glass in the air – toasting the deity for offering them the opportunity to make right in this way.

But what could he do if the memories were coming to him? 

Alone at his table, the Reaper watched in muted horror as the blurry image of the soul entered the cafe door. He knew instantly that it was a memory because the place _glowed_ \- warmed by the sunlight that streamed through the glass windows. The soul turned away from the counter and stared right at him, a huge smile appearing on his lips as he sat across him.

The Reaper sat, frozen, too speechless to react as the soul placed a notebook on the table, long elegant fingertips opening a page where notes, words, illegible words were scribbled. His gaze lowered as the soul began to work. Whilst he was certain that there was the distant noise of a coffee machine and background conversations, he found that he only heard a single palpable noise: the sound of the soul humming as he penned thoughts to paper. 

It was there that the soul looked up at him. His deep brown eyes were warm and full of life. The scene was ghostly but utterly immersive. It was as if the beauty of it was the knife twisting in his chest. For a moment, he became lost in it – expelling a breath as he cherished the sensation of sunlight on his cheeks; the weight of the soul’s gaze on him, making him feel warmer still. 

“Reaper Kim?”

The images dissolved quickly and the Reaper shuddered, glancing up to the concerned face of Manager Kim who occupied the seat across him. “Reaper Kim?” repeated the other, leaning across the table, “What’s wrong? Has something happened?” 

The Reaper placed a hand on his chest, fingers crumpling the fabric of his shirt as he gasped. It had been so immersive that the pain in his chest had been dull. He’d hoped confessing would ease some of the ache. “I... I believe I have committed a serious case of professional misconduct, Manager Kim.” 

“Well, that surprises me.” The Manager straightened in his chair, gaze remaining on his junior’s crumpled form, “What is it that you’ve done?”

The pain subsided, dull enough for him to speak, but the Reaper didn’t stop shivering. He gazed up into the eyes of the other Reaper, eyes glimmering,

“It’s my past life.”

And there, Reaper Kim launched into the tale of all the things had happened. How he’d unraveled the scroll and found himself at the pier. The memories that were plaguing him. The deep ache in his chest each time he recollected a speck of anything. 

“Here,” the Reaper slid the scroll of the soul across the table, “He is there. I will take any punishment you deem necessary.”

Bowing his head courteously to the other, the Reaper was surprised to hear the other’s soft laugh.

“You think you’re the only one who has had the misfortune of remembering a past life? It’s a small world, Reaper Kim. And we have touched more lives than we think we have, irrespective of how short our lives may have been.” The manager’s smile was friendly, but sad, as if tinged by an unsaid sense of empathy, “It is as if – we leave a piece of ourselves behind, in the places we go, the work we do, the people we... love.”

The Reaper glanced at the scroll.

“Regardless of who you might have been to him, Reaper Kim. You will only endanger yourself if you pursue him. The closer you are, the more you will remember. So it is wise to discard the matter completely and carry on as usual.” Manager Kim paused, softly adding, “Although it seems cruel now, there is a reason why you chose to forget. It is one of the most difficult choices, hence why it is always made right at the _end_.” 

Nodding, the Reaper expressed a sigh, observing the man’s actions closely as Manager Kim took the scroll from the table and tucked it into his bag. 

“Thank you,” Reaper Kim uttered, genuinely feeling enlightened.

“Anytime. Keep all of this to yourself, Reaper Kim.” Manager Kim advised with a smile, “Our jurisdisction is notorious for gossip and kiss-assery.” 

They made plans to meet again in a couple of weeks. Stepping out of the cafe, the Reaper felt the urge to glance back at the soul whom had been safely sat in his corner table the entire time. But he resisted - painfully. He supposed that was the level of self-control he would have to imitate if he was to heed his senior’s instructions.

*

But it was not to last long. 

After a brief hour working at the hospital, the Reaper found himself strolling down the long pavements of the high street. Sunset was visiting earlier and earlier; it was barely five and already the sky was fading black from a vivid colour of purples and blues. He didn’t look up at the sky much – instead he focused on the thick piles of browned leaves scattered along the road. Doing his best to miss them as he walked, he paused as he noted a flickering street lamp bulb. He glanced at it, blinking, as his gaze then lowered noted. Across the street was a small music shop where a familiar figure was sat by a piano within the window display. 

Beside him was a small child. From where the Reaper stood, they appeared like dolls – illuminated by a warm golden light that dazzled against the blackened windows of the other shops along the street.

Before he’d known it, the Reaper had crossed the street, drawn to the window like a moth to a flame. Helplessly, his pace slowed as he stopped a few steps from the window, the conversation from behind the window as audible as if he’d been inside with them. 

“You have to learn how to play. Your Dad owns a music shop. If you don’t learn, it seems like a waste doesn’t it?” 

Chanyeol smiled at the small boy beside him. The boy nodded, small hands pressing against the keys amusingly. 

“Okay. Can you teach me then, Mister?”

“Oh no, I won’t be any good. You need a proper teacher.” The pianist explained with a smile as he lightly tapped the keys, playing a short rhythm, “The last time I tried to teach someone, they just ended up getting angry at me.”

“Who did you teach?”

The hesitation on Chanyeol’s face was plain. “A friend of mine,” he shared eventually.

The music shop owner appeared then, beckoning for the boy to join him as he greeted the pianist with a smile. 

“Did you finish your concerto yet, Chanyeol? I hope you get us tickets.”

“Ah, not yet.” Chanyeol managed a short laugh, “Hopefully soon. According to my agency, before the end of the month.” 

“A boy like you? That’s easy. Now if you excuse us, someone needs to call his mother.” 

The two left the room, leaving Chanyeol alone with the beautiful Steinway grand.

This music shop was his favourite haunt. It was one of the first places he had visited when he initially moved to the city. The owner was a warm friendly man – a retired violinist that had toured the world as a freelancer in his youth. Often, when he was struck with inspiration and too far away from home to his own instrument, he’d burst into the doors of the shop and ask for permission to try out a melody on one of the shop’s wonderfully restored instruments. 

It had been a while since such a blast of inspiration had struck him. 

But the sensation of piano keys beneath his fingertips was an element of life he knew he missed more. Closing his eyes, the pianist began to play, shaky at first – but once he caught the rhythm, it was as natural as breathing. The melody he played was one he hadn’t attempted in a long time; an incomplete segment from the second of the two concertos he had been composing over the years. His eyes remained shut – feeling the music, drawing the notes out from the crook of his brain where they had been left to gather dust. They said absence made the heart grow fonder. It felt a little like that. As he played, the notes as familiar as if he’d practiced them each day, it was as if he was breathing a little bit of life into them. 

He had always composed his pieces with inspiration in mind. It was why they were described as music that seemed to bubble with a sense of thought and longing. 

Admittedly, he was also pitifully romantic man; hence why he’d been so marketable. Perhaps that was what drained his inspiration – the obvious lack of joy and romance in his life nowadays. 

“ _You write such sad things, Chanyeol. I hope the one you write for me is happier._ ” 

He opened his eyes at the sound of the memory – and his fingers stumbled, missing a note and he stiffened in distaste. Glancing to his right, he noted then that the little boy had returned. Chanyeol expressed a smile, “There you are. Everything okay?” But then he noted that the boy’s attention went beyond him and the piano. The boy’s eyes were wide, as he lifted a finger and pointed across to the street, 

“Mister, there’s a man there watching you play.”

Chanyeol’s eyes turned to the empty pavement. His stomach plumbed. Without a second thought, he left the piano stool and pushed the shop door open. The sharp wind dazed him and he narrowed his eyes, glancing across the empty pavement, where people were milling about in small groups.

“Where?” He asked out loud, turning back to the boy at the doorway, “Where is the man?”

But there was no man to be found. And as he walked across, rain began to fall. Stepping back inside, he glanced across at the flickering street lamp over the road, and then made his way indoors. 

By that street lamp stood the Reaper, eyes full of awe. 

*

The bad weather didn’t ease. Chanyeol went home, and as what had become quite habitual, sat on the couch in silence with a bottle of alcohol to hand. When he drank, his mind only focused on one thing - _memories_. In this strange state, he overlooked the crippling dullness of daily life. Instead, he recalled memories with unbelievable colour – any at all. And he didn’t feel the accompanying sadness that came with them. Not always. Most of the time, he felt happy that he remembered. 

Even if at the times, the details would blur: was he wearing a red or blue shirt? Was it a dog or a cat? But all of those minor details were meaningless against the delight in his heart when he would see _him_. 

And the music in his heart would return – even just for one beat. It was addictive – the worst of all his habits but just the one beat was precious to him. For it reminded him that a _good_ life existed – and there life had been a lot simpler and easier.

Tonight, the memories were hard to come by. He was tired. And so he did what he usually did when he couldn’t fall asleep from the alcohol alone. 

Resting his head on the arm of the couch, the pianist took a phone he kept beneath the sofa, dusted the surface, and scrolled to the _voice recordings_ tab. Glancing at the familiar list of items with a smile. He selected one and placed the device to his ear, softly closing his eyes as the crackle of the background noise subsided and a single voice began to talk through the speaker,

“ _Hello, this is Do Kyungsoo. You have reached voicemail. Please leave a message after the tone.... Second take. Hello, this is Do Kyungsoo. My apologies that I cannot take your call at the moment..._ ”

Chanyeol’s eyes remained closed as he listened to the voice closely – following the crests and troughs, fingers tightly holding the device. He had always had his voice memorised – even more so now. The pianist had even composed a piece of music on that single element alone. 

The recording stopped after a minute. In the quiet, Chanyeol’s deep breaths were the only sounds audible. The flat was dark now - empty. In a way, this exercise helped him cope with that too. He then allowed the recording to restart, hearing the repetitive greetings begin again. Tonight, he didn’t feel too sad. The feeling of the piano keys beneath his fingertips was still tangible and it somehow helped.

He shortly fell asleep to the sound of the recordings playing, the phone slipping out of his hand as he dozed off. 

*

Just outside of the city, the Reaper sat in his tearoom. It was his primary workplace: where the souls were taken after site collection.

Tonight, he only had one assignment. The soul of a young woman who died after an unfortunate vehicular incident that left her deceased only a week before her wedding day. She sat across him, blank, barely absorbing his welcomes and words. The Reaper, distracted by his own personal troubles, delivered his instructions with fewer rigors than normal. He poured the tea and slid the cup across.

“So, if you can please drink the tea and further instructions will follow.”

The woman glanced at the tea, and then up at him, evidently incredulous. “Is that it then? That’s all my life is? Something to forget?” She placed a hand on the silver necklace around her neck, fiddling with the chain, “That doesn’t do it much respect.”

“It is better to start clean. For your next life.”

A smile appeared on her lips as she then waved a hand in apology for her slight outburst. “Sorry, I’m just getting used to it still.” Tears appeared in her eyes. They were sights the Reaper was used to, but tonight, against recent events, he couldn’t help but be moved by it.

“Tell me,” he asked her, “Why do you weep?” 

She blinked. “What... what do you mean?” 

“You are dead. Weeping for your demise does not benefit you now.”

“I’m not doing it for me,” The woman snapped, fingers wiping her cheeks as she inhaled the aroma of the tea, “I’m crying because I’m thinking about the people I’m leaving behind. My parents. My siblings. My fiancé.” New tears began to fall, and this time she is helpless to stop them. “They’ll be devastated. What a horrible thing to leave them with. Grief. I wish we could leave them with the happy memories instead.”

The Reaper watched her – the way she pressed her hands against her necklace. She noticed his increased attention and smiled sadly.

“He gave it to me on our first date.” There, she paused, eyes turning to him questioningly, “Tell me. If we forget everything, do we also forget our loved ones?”

“Technically.” The Reaper noted, “Your memory is cleared. But you may still recall some things. The tea works differently for each soul.”

She nodded. “Well, I hope that I remember him.” Her eyes shone with tears, taking the chain and placing the metal against her lips, “I’ve loved him for so long I don’t think a cup of tea can make me forget all of that. It _can’t_. Love is stronger than death. It’s how we live on. It’s how we’re remembered.” 

After another moment, the woman offered him her gratitude before drinking her cup. The usual look of serenity appeared on her face, but almost instantly, the Reaper watched with obvious fascination as her fingertips returned to the necklace that remained around her neck. She said nothing about it, disappearing through the door to the afterlife with cautious eagerness. 

The Reaper sat alone in his tearoom for a while, pondering on her words, and the senior Reaper’s words. His day had seemed to lopsided: and in the center of it was the image of the soul as he’d played the piano in the afternoon. It was the most beautiful exercise, he thought. He knew nothing about music, yet in that moment any pure knowledge seemed meaningless. What one needed was a sense of _feeling_ \- and despite the Reaper’s vow he had taken all those years ago, he found that he _felt_ something then. 

And whatever that feeling may have been, it had been strong enough to silence the pain in his heart.

“Why do you write such sad things?” he found himself asking for no reason in particular as he walked home, several questions of a similar degree popping into his head. “Why are you sad? Why don’t you play your piano? Why are you walking around drunk at the pier?” 

And then he paused again. The most important questions left to the end.

“Why do I have to see you now? Why do I have to see you three weeks before you die?” 

The answer would come to him upon reaching a set of traffic lights and seeing a building lit up across him: _Blossom Theatre_. And there, he recalled the conversation at the music shop: the unfinished concerto. It was as if something pieced together in those few seconds and as the lights turned red, and people sped by him, the Reaper found himself frozen, his eyes transfixed on the theatre.

“He needs to finish his pieces,” he breathed. 

And something about it all convinced the Reaper that he was the only one that could help him do it. 

*

With a similar level of motivation as he would approach any Reaper-mediated task, the Reaper commenced the job straight away. He came to the soul’s home – braver, more determined, than he had been the previous evening. There was a reason behind all of this: and if he was to fixate on that, instead of his past associations with the soul, then it stripped the task of all its emotional implications. This made it easier to stomach – and reduced the fear behind his actions to paper-thin shreds of thoughts.

Inside the apartment, the Reaper was shocked to see the soul sleeping in the living room. The room reeked of alcohol. It was unfortunate, as he had opted to start his investigation there. Not knowing much about music, he thought that the best way to get the pianist to compose was to remind him of the compositions he was neglecting. After all, it did appear that he hadn’t touched the piano in his home for a long time, considering the dust. The Reaper was convinced that one of the scattered pieces on the floor was going to be a section of the lost concerto. 

But he was wrong. Most were scribbles that he’d half-attempted and the rest were scrap paper from old mail. 

He moved across to the soul’s bedroom – as empty as his living room. He began to open cupboards quietly, skimming the contents, looking out for anything vaguely related to music. Just when he was losing hope, the Reaper found a box underneath his bed and pulled it out. It was unlabeled. Upon opening, the Reaper placed a hand inside and scooped the first item which happened to be a folder of sheet music.

_“A Hundred Autumns (Piano Concerto No. 1)_

The Reaper didn’t need a second glance. He took the box into the living room and placed the folder on top of the piano for the soul to find. Surely, he would take such an action as a sign from the deity to finish his work. For that was how the Reaper comprehended the odd set of circumstances that had led him here. 

Feeling somewhat pleased with his efforts, he glanced into the box and noted then the other items that had accompanied it. The room was too dark to see into it, so he curiously peered inside and recognised that across the bottom of the box was a scattered pile of - _photographs_. 

Suddenly, the initial lift of his feelings dissipated. He lowered a hand into the box, retrieving a handful of photographs and tossing a glance at the empty wall where he’d recalled they had been. The Reaper looked at the first one – it was of the soul leaning against a bridge, sunset behind him, his eyes closed and his lips curved into a smile.

The rest were similar: the soul leaning against some form of structural item. Autumns; each photograph was of a scene with ambers and reds as a highlight. He was about to return the pile into the box when he saw the picture that happened to sit on the top. 

It wasn’t just the soul this time. 

Behind the soul and his usual, unfaltering smile, was a figure with his arms wrapped around the taller man, face only just visible as he’d pressed it against the fabric of the other’s coat. 

Even he couldn’t deny that the face was his. Brushing a thumb against the pair of figures, the Reaper found himself gasping as the scene seemed to come to life, his face lifting from behind the other’s back, revealing a younger face holding a happy and contented smile.

_“That’s going to come out well. I’m telling you, I’m good with photographs.” Chanyeol placed a hand against his, which remained wrapped around the other’s waist, “Now keep still, we’ll take another.”_

_“No, no more.” He whined, “I’ll take them instead.”_

_“Come on.” His hand was patted tenderly, “Whose going to believe that I was inspired by you if all of my pictures are of me alone standing next to trees? You’re supposed to be muse remember? The _Mona Lisa_ was probably hesitant too, but look how well her painting turned out because she followed the artists’ creative conviction.”_

_He scoffed loudly. “Did you just compare yourself to da Vinci?”_

_“Focus on the fact that I called you my Mona Lisa. Now, say cheese!”_

_Resting his head on a similar position before, he didn’t say cheese as the other had asked. Instead, he smiled, heart swelling of warmth as Chanyeol’s hand remained over his own._

The Reaper lowered the picture. 

Behind him, Chanyeol had woken up – stirred by something. He didn’t know if it was an urge to pee, or whether he’d dreamt restlessly. Either way, he found himself sat up, head throbbing and as he rubbed a temple feverishly, his gaze travelled across to where he noted an object that hadn’t been there before.

He stood up, walked across slowly, and then, after confirming his suspicions, shook his head, hands lifting into the air.

“No way—“ The words were cut off at the sight of the folder sat on top of his piano.

A hand covered his mouth as he approached it, eyes instantly gleaming with tears as he opened the folder. Softly, his fingers traced over the plastic protecting the sheet, running over the shape of the notes, as he returned his attention to the box. He shook his head, speechless, heart beating fast and loud, as he then noted the photograph that had fallen out of the box, alone on the floor. 

He almost fell to his knees, taking the image as he choked out a sob.

Except, instead of a sound – it formed a _name_.

“Kyungsoo?” Chanyeol called out, voice strained with longing – breathless with expectation – “Kyungsoo, are you home?” 

He looked down at the doorway. It all added up somehow. All the strange things that had been happening. The shadow; the music shop. And for a moment, he almost believed that a figure would appear – or a footstep would be heard. But his hopes were met by crushing silence; and this time, perhaps more than any other time, he felt the _loss_ weigh on him. It was the last domino to falling. Suddenly, he felt himself overcome with a heated, crushing, sense of sadness. He almost gasped from the stunning pain in his heart - a final blow of anger flashing, blurring his line of vision: “P—Please Kyungsoo,” he managed, fingers curling into fists as he sobbed loudly, “If you’re there, please. I need you. I need you home.” 

An arm’s reach away, the Reaper sat utterly stricken by the devastation. Tears fell from his eyes, slowly, as he watched the other weep into the floor, beating his fists against the carpet as he screamed in sorrow.

_“I’m home.”_

“I’m here, Chanyeol.” He exhaled, spluttering, “I’m h—home.” 

His words would never be able to cross the barrier between their existences but he willed them to, “I’m here, I’m right here.” He reached out across the space between them, body shaking as he cried, – “I’m sorry, I’m so—sorry.” 

And there, the other man lifted his head, attention immediately turning to his outstretched hand. For a moment, it was as if their eyes had met, and silence fell. But it was the rising sun that had stolen Chanyeol’s attention. The light fell against his face, and he shut his eyes, captured momentarily by the warmth of it.

He exhaled.

The Reaper had done the same, with his head buried in his hands as he continued to sob softly.

It would take a few moments before he would regain his composure. And it was after he lifted his head and blinked the tears away that he found himself confronted with the overwhelming image of Chanyeol sat, cross-legged, observing the crumpled photograph he held in his hand with a soft, tearful smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! So, I swear it won't be sad every chapter. But yes, I'd admit this was a sad one to write. Also, in this AU, the 'Reapers being seen by the living' rule has its own addendums, hence why PCY can't see KS in the final scene. And that will be explained later I'm sure. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! (And for Goblin fans, not long to go now sad sad sad).


	4. For Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note; that all italics are flashbacks c;

*

Do Kyungsoo had been his human name.

Twenty-six years old; dark-haired and dark-eyed; an _INFJ_ according to a personality test he had taken at university. His early life had been quiet and unassuming. Raised by an aunt with four children of her own, Kyungsoo was a muted shadow compared to them. He never met his parents; and he never had any interest in doing so. As a young boy, he existed without any concrete grasp as to what exactly that meant. Perhaps it was this detachment that caused so much of his early memories to be forgotten. 

Life only really became interesting after high school. Coincidentally, around the same time he met Park Chanyeol at the university he had been part timing to raise money for his tuition fees.

They wouldn’t meet again for another year and a half. By then, Kyungsoo had started his studies as a part-time scholar at a small university, opting for a short software engineering course to ensure the strongest job prospects. He’d been working at the local cinema at the same time – hence why he’d been absent at most of the social events that had entertained the rest of his peers. Kyungsoo hadn’t minded; but eventually he was peer-pressured into attending one. A party of all things. 

It was during that one house party – in the middle of November – that he found himself locked outside the patio doors with the dizzy and drunken pianist he’d met once upon a part-time-job.

The circumstances that led to that situation was one that had long escaped Kyungsoo’s memories – crumpled by the alcohol and the strangeness he’d felt the entire evening. All he remembered was how the taller boy had spent their entire thirty-five or so minutes together _convincing_ him to date. It was as if his identity had been completely mistaken for someone much more familiar and amazing – for the pianist couldn’t stop praising him. 

A particular highlight was when Chanyeol began to sing along to the karaoke that was happily going on indoors – dedicating his heartfelt serenade to the stranger he had only properly met a half hour before.

By then, Kyungsoo was too cold to be pissed off.

_“If I say yes,” Kyungsoo’s face was unmoved; sombre and rigid, “Will you help me get on the roof to get to that window?”_

_“That... sounds like something a b—boyfriend would do.”_

_Just uttering the words made the pianist smile. Kyungsoo couldn’t deny that his face felt somewhat warm as well. He quickly shook it off thought, deciding then that he would never ever agree to attend a house party again._

They were freed eventually – by the responsible driver whom had set a curfew for his group of friends, one of which was Kyungsoo. After such an experience, it would be absolutely reasonable to say that Kyungsoo never wanted to see or hear from the drunken pianist again. However, contrary to what people knew of him, the young man was a firm believer of fate. Believing in the strange machinations of the universe - was essentially how he had managed to survive both the cruelty and colour of his life.

And in his view, meeting Park Chanyeol at that university – and meeting him again at the party – constituted as particularly colourful moments.

Even if he was a bit of an idiot.

An idiot, that still ended up charming Kyungsoo enough to leave him his number. Hence why, the next day, Kyungsoo received a long, apologetic text, complete with a stuttery missed call and an offer of lunch. And it was during that lunch when it truly became clear to the pair that amidst all of the seemingly random chaotic noise that drove their meetings, existed a strong sense of _meaning_ and cause. 

They wouldn’t agree to date there. No – three weeks of constant texting and lunches would pass before Chanyeol extended the subject as an off-hand subject following a long spiel about his end of year showcase.

Kyungsoo agreed of course: his heart had never felt fuller.

Numerous showcases would pass, and Chanyeol’s talent was overwhelmingly showered with success. His boyfriend was as present as he could be, having taken a stake in all of the pianist’s creations. He wasn’t creative in any sense – but when it came to something as universal as music, he didn’t need to be. Chanyeol composed music that moved hearts and he was as proud as he was in love. 

It wasn’t long before the dim repetitiveness of his own life faded into the background. He loved to listen to Chanyeol play, compose, experiment, create – and became lost in the dynamics of the creative process. To be his number one fan was an honour Kyungsoo took with great pride, and when it came to the end of their education, where they had lived happily together in a safe bubble, he was certain that it was something that would survive irrespective of what happened next. Next; a referral to the stage that would follow their relationship. From young love - to something more solid, _stronger_

He didn't expect it to be good news. After all, he had heard it in whispers – felt it in the sadness of the pianist’s kisses: his parents’ disapproval. 

To be together so long had been an achievement. Kyungsoo, who had lived his life both an optimist and realist, was too happy to be heartbroken and he was sure of it. But when the pianist declared that he would pursue his dreams, which included his love, irrespective of his parents’ opinions, Kyungsoo wasn’t sure he’d ever felt his heart weigh as heavy with feeling. He remembered how he'd pulled the other into a tight embrace, wanting nothing more but to urge him out of his fears and sadness. _This is worth it, I promise._

They started their new life at a flat that Chanyeol inherited from his grandfather (the one Kyungsoo would visit later as a Grim Reaper). 

Kyungsoo was successful in acquiring a desk job; the pianist accepted a contract at a well-known agency. They were young and poor - but content. Chanyeol played him melodies and cooked chicken; whilst Kyungsoo kept the flat tidy and kept him warm when he was sick. 

But even the strongest structures had to weather storms.

The pianist had the temperament of an artist: insecure and destructive. Kyungsoo found it draining, and at times when he found composing difficult – they would argue for days. But it was never enough to break them. 

In fact, as the Reaper began to piece more of the memories together, he found that despite the difficulties, he felt love most of all. Chanyeol didn’t express it much – but it was there between the notes of the compositions he played to him most nights.

Another fact that the Reaper recognised: Do Kyungsoo died in autumn.

The Reaper knew that because he could clearly recall the last day he spent with Chanyeol. They were at a park – the one implicated in the photos he’d found at the flat – and it was within that single photo that he featured that he captured the last memory they shared. 

_“I hate the opera house. I hate it. Can I say that?”_

_Chanyeol had been playing for them as an extra source of income. He was playing as a member of the strings section, having played violin as a secondary instrument. Kyungsoo leaned against the bridge, allowing the other to vent and release, staring tensely at the canal beneath them. He lifted a hand to rub against his eyes, irritated._

_“Kyungsoo,” the pianist nudged his elbow before placing a much-needed arm around him, “You okay? You’ve been acting weird lately... did I do something?”_

_The fever of his concern agitated Kyungsoo who shook his head, shaking his arm away in the process._

_“I want to go home. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”_

_“Uh, okay. I’ll call you later.”_

_He walked away – faster, further as the other’s call only grew louder. “Hey! You better answer your phone!”_

_Chanyeol watched him until he disappeared from view, evidently hurt._

Something was missing from his memories – something essential.

But to dig to find it was a feat too far. 

On his bed, bathed in sweat, the Reaper writhed in pain, draining each drop of emotion from each memory as he forced himself to _remember_. He’d been confined to the bed for hours – stricken by his experience at the flat. By now, he was numbed to it all - he couldn’t even tell a happy memory from a sad one. There were no simple distinctions between the images he lived through. Each one was a mix of everything and for a being that was never meant to feel, he had no vessel in which to store the intensity of human feelings.

Chanyeol—and love was the worst and most painful of all. 

Delirious, the Reaper let himself flicker between sleep and consciousness. Eventually, his absence from a night's work caught the attention of his superiors. It would take another Reaper, from the jurisdiction beside his, to help him out of it.

“Manager Kim said you might be sick. I’ve never heard of a Reaper getting sick before. But you certainly have something.” 

He gave the Reaper some well-needed food. After a few bowls of soup, he felt much better – at least that was what he told the other to report.

“Can you just tone down what you saw?” he asked his colleague with his usual, unwavering tone. “I’m keen to get back to work. I don’t want Manager Kim to worry.”

“Sure.” The other Reaper shrugged, taking his briefcase as he smiled softly, “So long as it’s not contagious then I’m sure it’s all fine.”

*

The Reaper decided after to take a walk. Still shaky, he visited the park that had featured so recurrently through the memories of his previous soul. As he took each step, he found the palest memories returning – of preferred paths and shortcuts - and he followed them obediently. 

Naturally, it would take him right to the bridge where Chanyeol stood alone.

He knew it was him immediately. And just at the ridiculousness of it, the Reaper managed a laugh – until he recognised how his eyes were once again full with tears. He approached the figure, his pace quickening – a muted need to _see_ him rising. And when he finally stood beside him, and saw him, the Reaper found himself gasping in pain.

Having seen him as he was, through the many years they had been together, it stunned him how drastically Chanyeol had changed. Gone was the glow – the _brightness_ he’d been known for. His face had aged, the depth of it seen most evidently in the dull way his eyes registered his surroundings.

Kyungsoo’s lips parted – but it was Chanyeol that spoke.

“Are you haunting me?” His voice was dry and broken, “Is that what this is?” 

There was no possible way that he would be able to see him. But Kyungsoo still found himself taking a step backwards, only to realise that he was being spoken _at_ \- not to.

“Is it really you?” Chanyeol’s eyes shut as he shook his head, fingers curling into fists, “Were you the man at the pier?” 

His eyes opened, gaze lowering.

“Are you really dead?”

At the words, the man’s face crumpled as he began to sob quietly. As he lifted an arm to shield his face, he found himself knocked lightly by a sudden breeze. Chanyeol turned around, blinking away the blur in his eyes, as he gazed at where a pile of leaves suddenly gathered. They were circling and settling on a site - an unfamiliar cloud of activity on an otherwise still-life scene. 

It was a spot he recognised of course. He still had the photograph in his pocket. He hadn’t been able to let go of it since.

Calmly, he approached the spot, eyes focused above – the calm blue of the sky a welcomed image.

“Kyungsoo,” he murmured, lowering his gaze, as he removed the photograph from his pocket and smoothed where creases had formed across the other’s face, “Kyungsoo-ah... what happened? Why did I let you leave that day, huh?” 

He shut his eyes again, pressing the photograph gently against his lips.

Behind him, Kyungsoo’s arms were wrapped around his waist tightly. He pressed his face against the other’s coat forcefully, face damp with tears.

For the first time in a long time, Chanyeol felt the warmth of sunlight. He opened his eyes, glanced at the photograph and managed a tender smile. Returning it to his pocket, he took out his phone and swiped to the camera. After quickly wiping his face with his sleeve, he lifted the device upwards and stated a gentle, 

“Maybe it’s time to add another picture to the wall of _A Hundred Autumns_ , hm?”

Chanyeol forced a smile, almost struck by his own reflection as he attempted to capture the sunset horizon behind him.

_Click_

He lowered his phone and glanced at his screen. There, he noted the unusual blur of light that happened to swipe across the image behind him. It was too light to be a shadow – but too dark to be a ray of sun.

He turned quickly, but only saw the lingering pedestrians.

His phone vibrated, causing him to jump.

_FROM JONGDAE: oi, you’re not at home??? where are you?_

*

They met at a restaurant for dinner. It was the first time that Chanyeol had openly invited anyone to a meal – perhaps the rightful way to celebrate the first time he’d felt any real appetite to eat.

Jongdae was his closest and longest friend. To confide in him, was the only way the pianist knew how to assess the strange situation he was now faced with. And he did, even if it did make him feel somewhat mad.

“I.” The story concluded, and Jongdae hadn’t taken a bite of his steak for the past two minutes. 

“You have to believe me.” Chanyeol insisted, gulping down his drink as he shoved a mouthful of salsa into his mouth, “I’m not insane. He’s... I’m being haunted, Jongdae.”

“I.” The singer’s eyes blinked, “Well. Okay, how—how do you feel about that then? Doesn’t that worry you?”

The question fell on deaf ears. The pianist babbled excitedly, fuelled both by the food and the joy of having shared his concerns with a (seemingly) unbothered companion,

“I just. Ever since that night, I’ve had this itch to compose you know? And I’ve almost done it – twice. I might tonight. No, I _will_ , because I bet that’s why he’s here. He’s always... wanted me to finish this set. It was... the last ones he heard. I had only just finished the first when he... when he...” 

Chanyeol fell quiet, his eyes growing thoughtful. 

Across him, Jongdae managed a comforting smile. “That’s... good news. I’m glad you’re composing again, Yeol.”

“Yeah,” recovered the pianist, smiling again, “I feel... inspired. I haven’t felt that for... years.” 

“This sounds great. Now I can finally flog the tickets to your concert to everyone, huh?” 

“It’s a showcase really. And sure.” Chanyeol took out his phone, scrolling through his emails as he began to type, “I’ll forward you the details again. It’s going to be.... on November 20th... at the _Blossom_. The pretty one, with the domed roof.”

Jongdae nodded, taking a bite of his steak as he saved the details to his calendar.

They finished the meal and Chanyeol decided to walk the singer home. They spoke casually about other subjects - about the agency, and the weather, and Jongdae's failing exercise regime. Admittedly, Chanyeol's mind was on other things - and it was only after crossing the road that he noticed the headline that was displayed on a sign by the corner shop. A subject that somehow rounded off what a peculiar day he'd had:

_Hwyman Inc. completes administration settlement. CEO Gae flees country._

Chanyeol paused across the shop. Instantly, Jongdae grabbed his arm.

“Let’s go, come on.” 

“No, it’s fine. I just haven’t seen... the name for so long.” 

He left it, but his steps felt considerably heavier as he returned home alone. As he walked, he recalled the day he’d taken the photograph – the day he would see his Kyungsoo last.

_  
Despite what he’d told the other earlier, Kyungsoo wasn’t answering his phone. The anger Chanyeol felt was masked with worry now; and as each attempt at communication fell flat with his boyfriend’s voicemail message, he felt almost suffocated with unexplained fear._

_“Please leave a message after the tone...”_

_“I’m trying to idiot. Pick up, pick up.” It was as if Chanyeol knew something was wrong. He felt it— the wrongness of the situation. The worry hit a peak, as the pianist hollered loudly into the phone - “Pick up, Kyungsoo!”_

_The loudness of the sound against the empty flat made him feel worse._

_There, he decided he would have to take action and call his workplace. It was the only other place he imagined him being. Searching for his work number, Chanyeol dialled with trembling fingers, pressing the phone against his ear closely as it connected him with the automated switchboard:_

_“Thank you for calling Hwyman Inc. Please enter the extension number of your division of interest.”  
_

*  
Entering his flat, Chanyeol switched all the lights on – as he usually did, annoyingly so, whenever he was composing – and spent the rest of the evening filling out his living room with many of the things he’d tucked away for a long time. This included his old awards, old family photographs, and finally – some of the things Kyungsoo had left behind. 

He lined the shelf with Kyungsoo’s collection of figurines. They were mini-models of tourist attractions from all over the world. It was a hobby he’d nurtured during university which began after visiting a vintage market and buying a tiny metal Eiffel tower, which was soon accompanied by a bite-sized coliseum. It was so strange and unusually cute to Chanyeol at the time; and it was sad, to think that he never had the chance to ask him why it was that he loved the figurines so much.

The next thing to be returned was the wall of pictures he’d taken down from many years ago. Although he couldn’t recall the exact position of every image, as Kyungsoo had been the original decorator, Chanyeol did his best to match the scenes and colours. It was always supposed to serve as a source of inspiration for his pieces: a pool of beauty from which Chanyeol could draw melodies from. 

The final photograph to be placed was the one he’d kept close to him since he’d seen it again. And he remembered very clearly where it had once been.

Pinning it to the middle, the pianist smiled – lovingly and adoringly, remembering how the other’s arms had wrapped around him. The rarest - and most precious display of affection.

And there, Chanyeol let his head fall forwards, arms wrapping inwards as he thought of what Jongdae hadn’t _said_ during their meal. A question he’d skipped – thinking it was too hurtful, too much.

_He’s dead. If he’s haunting you, then he’s dead. Are you okay with that?_

His eyes rose to glance at the picture, expression once again dashed with the purest of hurt. It did hurt – a lot. But perhaps, time had shouldered the worst of it for him: and he had in fact been grieving this entire time. 

He spoke without ever really meaning to, feeling the words bubble up before he'd managed to assess how they'd hurt to say, “I love you, Kyungsoo. I don’t care whether you’re dead, okay? I still love you. Your idiot still loves you.” 

Nodding his head, he decided to continue. Renewed with determination, he immediately began work on cleaning the piano. After, he pulled the folder of compositions onto his lap and sighed comfortingly at the sensation of the sheets of music between his fingertips.

For now, he would make only one change. Crossing out the title he’d provisionally given, the pianist neatly wrote another,

_A Last Autumn (Piano Concerto 1 and 2)_

He then placed his hands on the piano keys – and remembered then, the nights when Kyungsoo would sit by him, his head resting on his shoulder as he played melody to melody, from Schubert to _Shakira_.

__

_“Do you want me to write you a lullaby? I can if you want.”_

_Chanyeol began to play excitedly (and loudly) on the piano keys, causing the other man, whose head was comfortably pressed on his shoulder to stir and groan loudly._

_“Don’t play so loud. Just do the one you did before.”_

_“Come on, Kyungsoo. Go to bed and rest. You have work tomorrow.”_

_“No.” Kyungsoo’s grip on his arm tightened. “I promised I’d be present for the composition of the year, remember? I want to be here... when you finish the exp... expedition?”_

_“Exposition,” the pianist grinned._

_Kyungsoo nodded his head in agreement. Chanyeol returned to the piano keys, only to pause as he glanced around the room – noting the wall of photographs fondly as his gaze settled on the figure dozing quietly on him._

_“Play, Chanyeol. Don’t get distracted,” was the discontented mumble._

_“Love you, Kyungsoo.” Chanyeol didn’t say it enough. He knew he didn’t. But at the same time, there was no particular need to._

_It was obvious enough._

_Kyungsoo’s eyes opened and gazed at him. His pretty lips broadened into a soft smile as he mumbled a weary, “Love you too, idiot.”_

_The pianist wondered then if I love you was enough. Were they words that still retained meaning? They were overdone, in his view. He was worth more than an I love you._

_And so he decided then to deliver his next words as a simple whisper – a lover’s secret,_

_“You’re the reason I write.” Tenderly, his fingers brushed against the other’s cheek, “Happy or sad. You’re in every melody I'll write for the rest of my life. ”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys! Academic stuff has got me all over the place, but I am still here and still writing sad things evidently :c 
> 
> It's been so long, Goblin has ended wahh. I hope this will satisfy us for now, as we go through the k-drama grieving process. Anyway, thank you for reading! and for always giving this story lots of love. Till next time!


	5. Because I Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am popping a note at the beginning because I will warn that the following chapter is probably the heaviest plot-wise, and emotionally. Brief mentions of violence, and deep, deep, unyielding angst. Enjoy.

“Where did you say you worked?”

“S—Sorry?” Blowing his nose into a tissue, the man glanced up into the cold eyes of the Reaper.

“You mentioned your workplace.” The Reaper’s eyes focused on the amber colour of the tea. The soul was his third of the day – albeit the most typical of his collection. He fitted into one of the usual categories: a middle-aged man with a devastated liver that he would subsequently succumb to. He had collected him in the city hospital.

Unsurprisingly, the best place in which to meet other Reapers and catch up. 

“Ah.” The soul’s eyes darkened as he wrapped trembling hands around his cup, “Hwyman. Hwyman Inc. I—I was part of their sales division. But then they went through that— and I lost my job. I lost everything, really.” 

His voice broke as he began to cry again. The sound was hollow and tired – as if the emotion had become so familiar that all meaning had faded. The soul paused momentarily, shaking his head, mumbling a little, as he relapsed and continued to sob.

This time, the Reaper felt too overwhelmed to respond. He found himself feeling increasingly distant – a transient thought wrapping around his brain as it latched onto the name: _Hwyman Inc_. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, breaths deepening, as the sense of familiarity expanded, then hit a wall. The frustration made him grimace as he shook his head, resisting the temptation to press the matter more. 

Behind his tears, the soul noted the change in the Reaper’s expression and mumbled a soft, 

“D—Don’t feel sorry for me, Reaper. I wasn’t the only one. That company? It ruined a lot of people. In far worse ways than me.”

\-- 

Before his evening shift, the Reaper decided to visit the aforementioned company at the address he found in the directory. It was a large twelve-floor building – just outside the principal business district of the city. The sign of the company remained, but the metal had corroded with time, and as the Reaper walked across the street to its entrance, he noted the presence of graffiti at every surface with the company’s logo. Most were derogatory with large swear words sprayed in neon colors – whilst others expressed their hatred in visual art. 

He found himself pausing at one: it was a man in a suit, presumably a Hwyman Inc. employee, exchanging a kiss with the devil. In the background stood the beautiful familiar towers of the city engulfed in flames.

Inside, the building was long abandoned. It reminded him of the sad scenes that followed disasters in blockbuster movies. The absence of human presence had stolen something essential away from the place: warmth, a sense of purpose. And as he walked through the corridors of the ground floor, wandering, aimless – he found himself feeling like his own existence was being drained by the emptiness of the place. Perhaps it was because Reapers were much like abandoned buildings: without a soul, without a purpose. 

As he walked down the corridor, eyes acknowledging the empty offices as he frowned, his gaze turned to the set of elevators at the end. The deeper he wandered, the narrower the light source became, ensuring that the large elevator doors looked increasingly harrowing as he stepped. 

It was there that he froze. Something _clicked_ \- and he felt it as he was pushed aside, physically, by a memory. He blinked, shaken, as the darkness seemed to blur into light, the dust of the place lifting and revealing _life_ \- carried by loud, tangible and visible figures passing by like poltergeists.

He turned his head – spotting his own figure instantly. He wasn’t alone. There were people behind him. 

 

_He shouldn’t have come here. He should’ve ran away like he should’ve. He should’ve ran away with Chanyeol like he should have. Why did he leave things too late? Why did he ever think anything was going to be alright?_

_He felt weak with fear as the men behind him followed him into the elevator. He avoided their gaze, focusing numbly on the sight of the corridor across him as it narrowed with the closing doors. The familiar _ding_! came as it shut and he felt instantly nauseous. _

_Glancing up at the glare of the elevator light, he bit down on his lip – thinking only of remaining strong -- and of Chanyeol._

 

The Reaper followed the memories blindly, running down the steps to the basement, lips parted in frozen horror. 

 

_The lift jittered still. He stepped out into the basement-parking floor. He walked forwards, obedient in his silence, as he felt the fear grow in the pit of his stomach. There was a shiver down the side of his arm: and a sudden twitch in his leg to run. His instincts were strong, and the harder they pushed, the harder he had to resist._

_By the time he reached the black Audi, he was gritting his teeth to fight back tears._

_The men behind him ushered him forwards with a deep push against his shoulders._

 

Pausing, the Reaper watched as the memories made their way across, their images growing lighter as they faded into the spot where the car would’ve been. He shook his head-- _no it’s not finished yet_ — and he found himself running forwards, only to stumble into a halt, as he heard and felt the ghostly _bang_ of a gunshot.

The sound dazed him and he swayed, fists curling, head rolling back as he felt his legs twist from beneath him. The next sensations he would feel were his knees hitting the concrete, as his hands pressed and scrunched against his chest – the pain was _scalding_ him now and it was spreading, the heat of it reaching the back of his eyes as he began to choke and spit, blood splattering messily on the concrete floor.

He gasped loudly as if reaching for a final breath and then – 

Stillness.

On the floor, sweat dripping from his brow, the Reaper glanced down at where he’d clawed at his chest, the pain all but numbed. He glanced around, the quietness of it stunning him as he slowly lifted to his feet. His eyes glowed with tears as he exhaled, arms protectively wrapping over his chest as the ache of the memory began to fade.

But even as the physical recollections began to diminish, he felt the fleeting sense of - _guilt_ remain inside of him. It was to be the last thing he felt before he died: an overwhelming sense that he would bring beyond his last breath. 

\--

The Reaper, or perhaps better now to be referred to as Kyungsoo, was certain now that there had been nobody in his previous life that he had loved more than Chanyeol, the pianist. Without his full memories restored, he was certain that he was only scratching the surface of how deeply he had felt for him. It was in every sense he felt whenever he encountered him. He felt light and engaged; and never sad despite it all.

He’d been composing more lately and Kyungsoo had felt thankful. Although the man was prone to erratic sleeping and eating patterns, he appeared content with most of his time spent behind the piano. During intervals, he would take long walks and disappear behind the crowds of the city. Kyungsoo tried to visit him less, having opted to provide the musician with emotional peace as he completed his sonatas. 

Tonight, he decided he would pay a visit. Still unnerved by what he’d seen at the company building, he had tried his best to regain the memories on his own. He failed; and much as he tried to abandon the subject altogether, he felt pulled towards it. In the same way that he’d felt at the pier, and at the photographs, Kyungsoo comprehended that it signalled that something was _unfinished_ and he had to fill the gaps.

Sat on the foot of the bed, Kyungsoo observed the sleeping pianist with a sad smile on his lips. The other had slept earlier than usual, exhausted by the lack of rest he’d suffered from the past week. He was still holding a pen in one hand, protectively wrapped in a fist. He kept his gaze on him, focusing on the image of his closed eyes, and the contented line of his lips, prompting himself to recall the many nights he must have admired an identical image. How his heart must have skipped; how lucky he must have felt.

But he couldn’t remember, and for that, he found himself shaking his head as he approached the man’s form. 

“Chanyeol,” The name _hurt_ to say, and it was evident in the stricken expression in his eyes as he spoke in a low, strained, tone, “Chanyeol. I went to Hwyman today and I saw something. And I think I need to understand what it means so I can make sure that I help you. So, I’m going to make you remember some things that you’d probably rather forget forever. But I’ll only do it for a moment. And it will only be a dream. I won’t be long. I’m sorry.” 

Smiling sadly, the Reaper leaned forwards and brushed his hand gently against the pianist’s cheek.

The single touch – barely a touch at all – sent him spinning instantly, and he struggled to grasp at the memory he wanted, as he was thrown around by the many new recollections that had resurfaced since his return. 

He focused on the feeling – and the voices – and one by one, the images began to form, and within his own head, some of the fog started to clear. Similar to how it had been before, Chanyeol’s voice began to dim – and his own began to unfold, deeper and more consuming.

The first memory that returned was an early one. A quick snapshot into his second year as a worker in the city, but as clear as yesterday nonetheless.

_  
He had never wanted a sales job. He was a computer engineer – what good was his expensive degree here? Glancing around, Kyungsoo struggled to fight the bitter expression on his lips as he worked, numbed by the repetitiveness of it all and the consistent sound of typing and printing. He looked forward to the hours when he returned home and the hollow sounds of his co-workers would be replaced by the warmth of piano music and sweet kisses._

_But even then. He was certain that Chanyeol was noticing that he was sad. Just yesterday he’d brought up delaying music and becoming a... tutor. How awful._

_Kyungsoo would not accept defeat for his side of the bargain. He would provide through this career because it was the best way he could support him. And that was more powerful than any disdain that he had for the mind-numbing bureaucracy of this job. He had endured a year or so – he could endure many more. It wasn’t even difficult: he should consider himself lucky as there were many others without careers of their own._

_Optimism would get him through; just like his Chanyeol._

_Glancing up at the clock placed above the doorway, Kyungsoo sighed in relief as it indicated towards his lunch hour. Without hesitation, he scooped up his things into his arms and prepared to scamper out and get something cooked at home. But before he could step out, he found himself disrupted by a figure behind him,_

_“Do Kyungsoo, yeah?”_

_He turned, glancing up at the face of a man he vaguely recognised as a junior accountant from the intake above him. He visited their department often, having most of his friends there. His voice was thick and irritably low._

_Kyungsoo nodded slowly._

_“You’re a compsci grad, right?” The man’s smile spread wide and large, as an arm was slung over his shoulder and he was dragged forwards to walk, “What are you doing in sales then?”_

 

The memory petered away. The one that followed began with a simple – touch.

 

_“Oi, Kyungsoo. You listening to me?”_

_They were tucked under the covers. Kyungsoo’s eyes were blank with thought as he’d pondered over the matter for what felt like the thousandth time: it would be absolutely wrong— no never mind wrong, very illegal, to assist them in what they were doing. To steal those algorithms from Hwyman would be unthinkable._

_But would it hurt?_

_His role was also minor. The introduction of a bug and its subsequent removal— it was essentially his thesis. Inside, he had contemplated all day more about the bug induction – more than the morality behind it. But beside his lover, work and computers seem to always sit second. Third perhaps: behind the concerns about bills and money._

_“I’m listening.” Kyungsoo responded, eyes lowering sadly._

_“Hey,” prodded Chanyeol with a worried glance, “What’s up?”_

_The bug would be quick. He could do it: and it would be two months of tax and bills paid with a few typed keys._

_Kyungsoo inhaled sharply, before simply leaning forwards and wrapping his arms around the other in silence._

 

His heart thudded slowly, as increasing waves of other memories began to wash over him. They had hired him: knowing his background, and knowing the stasis of his work output. He was an easy target to utilise – to manipulate. And he had implemented the bug, carried out the project, with barely a morsel of guilt, more convinced of the rewards: the ease of financial burden for a handful of months. 

But it was more than just algorithms that were stolen. 

Millions of dollars out of the employee pension would be taken in the subsequent months that followed.

With his action at the center, Kyungsoo recalled feeling no element of guilt – until he saw the first headline on someone’s morning paper on the way to work.

 

_They were stripping the business down, searching for the site of the bug. Kyungsoo watched the company meeting, a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach as he watched the CEO jab angrily in the air, promising to beat down the culprit from within its walls._

_The next day’s headlines were no better. Pensions were diminished – people began to suffer – and subsequently, people began to protest. There were even talks of corruption – of higher powers using the hacking as a ruse._

_Kyungsoo was sleeping and eating less. He avoided Chanyeol’s eyes at night: his heart felt heavy and he didn’t want him to feel it too. But even when they fought, the other’s resolve to lift him didn’t wane. He would play music, embrace him, talk about nonsense things to dilute his brain of all the terrible thoughts that otherwise whirred around. And for a little while, the guilt eased, and he found himself momentarily seeking normalcy._

_It wasn’t to last long._

_“Don’t say a word.”_

_The four words placed on a post-it-note on his doorstep on a Monday morning would dismantle all such comforts._

_He crumpled the paper until it was nothing but a ball._

_Later that night, he fought with Chanyeol again, and this time he cried during their argument and couldn’t stop._

_“I c—can’t do it,” he sobbed into the other’s neck, utterly incomprehensible as the other whispered comforting words into his ear, “I have to s—say something.”_

The memory ended quickly, the last echoes of his sobs fading, as it suddenly brought him to the park—with the photograph, and his arms wrapping around Chanyeol’s waist as they’d taken the picture together. Something about it seemed ominous – diminishing the warmth as he’d held his lover close. 

Understandable, considering it had been his last day.

The next took him back to their apartment where he’d ran straight into after leaving Chanyeol at the bridge in the park. He had seen _them_ there – and he knew then that it would be the last.

But to think on it further would’ve complicated a perfect goodbye. 

 

_It was finally too late. He had to leave Chanyeol to do it – just in case. Running around the apartment, he held the USB stick in a fist and scanned the various items he could place it. There was nowhere safe for it-_

_Unless._

 

Chanyeol woke up with a jolt.

The Reaper stumbled back, bringing the man’s final memory with him as he did so. This time, it was not his own— but the other, and it was the recollection that had been vivid enough to have triggered him awake.

 

_“Please, my boyfriend, he’s missing. What’s happening? Why are you doing this?”_

_It was like he was invisible to them. Watching with horror as police officers swarmed the apartment, Chanyeol stumbled back onto his piano, everything presenting in slow-motion, silent but deafening, as they ran assessing fingers and machines over the various items in the living area. From Kyungsoo’s figurines, to the wallpaper art, each component of the room was clinically assessed, and as they made their way into the various rooms, he found himself approached by one figure clad in uniform._

_Her eyes were harsh and cold. “This is the residence of Mr Do Kyungsoo, yes?”_

_Chanyeol could only manage a nod, feeling nauseated by fear as he managed a soft, “He’s in trouble, isn’t he?” At the woman’s nod, the pianist glanced away, shaking his head as he placed a hand over his forehead._

_“We have reason to believe that he may have stolen a considerable amount of company credit from Hwyman Inc.”_

_“W—What?” Chanyeol laughed, turning towards her instantly, “That’s ridiculous. Do... did you ask him?”_

_“We also believe he may have fled the country.”_

_The next few hours would be hell._

_He was questioned by the officers multiple times – the same questions, phrased differently: _“Did you know of Do Kyungsoo’s involvement in the security breach at Hwyman Inc?”__

_And each time, he would answer no. But he would inquire as to Kyungsoo’s location. And each time they refused to answer, Chanyeol held on to the hope that he was fine—perhaps also contained in a cell somewhere trying to disapprove this horrible misunderstanding. But somewhere in the middle, the hope was dissipated by the growing recognition that something was wrong and some other things added up. And it was there, that he found out about the note they had found in Kyungsoo’s work locker._

_The confession; the resolution that he would leave and repent._

_Chanyeol received the news in the station chief’s office. Exhausted, he took one glance at the note and with a vacant expression, nodded, at the following question;_

_“Would you say that it was his handwriting?”_

_It was. Glancing at the note again, the man grew cold at the realisation that there was no mention of his name once._

_He was returned home then. And for the next few weeks, he would remain in his mother’s apartment – away from the media outlets, the stories about the anonymous hacker, and the prospect of a phone-call that they had found Kyungsoo somewhere. He wouldn’t even speak on the matter. Not when people from work – and his friends - tried to reach him._

_The first time that Chanyeol would speak about Kyungsoo again was during his first visit back to the apartment after weeks of being away. He’d returned alone without anyone’s prior knowledge. And he’d returned, with the faint hope in his heart that Kyungsoo would be inside – waiting – ready to dismiss it all – to apologise._

_Unsurprisingly, the place was as empty as when he left it and seeing their beautiful apartment gather dust broke him._

_“I hate him, I hate him. I can’t believe he’d do this.” He could barely see through his tears, as he tore the photographs from the wall, slammed a hand against the art, and the figurines, sending them cluttered and broken onto the floor._

_He fell after them._

_“I’ll never forgive him.” Shaking, Chanyeol’s hands lifted to hold his head tightly, as he mumbled soft, tender words into the silence, “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t come back, Kyungsoo. So come back, yeah? D—don’t you dare leave me like this.”_

\--

The street was cold; Kyungsoo’s heart was colder.

He walked home; unable to abandon the memories he’d taken with him. Inside, he shuddered at the thought of the crime he’d committed: the many lives he’d indirectly affected and stolen. The souls that must have passed through, from the difficulties imposed on their lives by his wrong decision. 

And the largest victim was always the loved ones; or in this case the loved _one_.

A hand rested on his chest as he felt it ache with anguish, and he shook his head, wondering how terrible it must have been— and continues to be for Chanyeol, to live with the knowledge that Kyungsoo had left him. It explained everything – the guilt that tied him to the lost souls of Hwyman Inc, to the flat, to the lover he’d promised eternity. The only way for Chanyeol to know the truth was to find his memory stick.

But even that was lost now. 

The Reaper found no outlet for the pain he felt, and as he approached his flat, he found himself stumbling forwards to fall, only to be caught by Manager Kim.

“Reaper Kim.” He managed, one arm over his shoulder, as he supported the other, “What happened?”

*

Sipping warm tea, Chanyeol sat by the piano and sighed loudly. He glanced at the time – _3AM_ – and pondered over the nightmares that had caused him to wake up so early. Admittedly, he actually had them to thank as he found his interest in composing strangely enhanced. If he was to be inspired at this hour, then so be it.

Stretching his fingers, he propped open his sheet book and turned to the next page – only to note that it was already scribbled on in pencil. He blinked, gazing further, and noting then that it was not doodles – but actual writing.

He froze momentarily after recognising it as Kyungsoo’s handwriting. 

His bottom lip trembled, as he lifted the book and gently placed it flat against the piano keys, the paper illuminated against the lamplight. Hitching a breath, Chanyeol gazed over the paper and the note read:

_C_.

If you’re reading this, then I’m afraid something bad might have happened to me. If so, then you’re going to find out things about me that I kept from you. So let me apologise for everything.

Firstly, I’m sorry for what I did. I wish I could explain why I did it. The truth is, that I only did what I did because I didn’t think my decision through. I don’t know if that instantly makes me a bad person, but it definitely makes me a stupid one.

Second, I’m sorry about what you’re about to go through. It’s going to be horrible. They’re going to ask lots of questions. I have a memory stick in the pocket of this notebook, which will hopefully help get them off your back.

Lastly, I’m sorry for not being there with you right now. Right now, as you’re reading this. I wish I were there. I wish that none of this happened and I could watch you fill this book with music. I wish there were a hundred autumns out there for us to see together. I wish I could be around for all of it; the rest of it; us. 

Be brave. Please understand. I love you. 

Dazed, the pianist flicked the pages slowly to reach the back where he slipped a hand inside the plastic hard pocket and felt the cold brush of metal inside.

He exhaled, stuttering, as he quickly returned to the letter in the book, running light fingers over the faded words to ensure that they were real.

They lingered over the final line – his last words – as he observed the way Kyungsoo's handwriting had shifted, his letters slanted, as if hesitating.

The difficulty of a goodbye conveyed in a single action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for all the love for this lovely sad tale of ours and for being so patient with me. One more chapter to go is the plan c: So, please keep an eye out and I hope you all have a lovely week! 
> 
> Chapter title credit; Because I Love You - gorgeous, sad piece by Yiruma :'c


	6. Prelude

 

Manager Kim had been the reaper tasked with recruiting the newly passed, Do Kyungsoo. He had received his scroll that morning and spent his breakfast grimacing at the grisly details of the soul’s death. Attending to the scene a minute or two after the time outlined (accounting for the usual delay), the Reaper had been surprised to see that the soul had fled. He glanced around, invisible to the perpetrators that clinically swiped the scene, barely registering them as they drove away. 

It wasn’t the first time that this happened. He travelled to the first place that souls tended to travel to – their home – and successfully found the soul, stood inanimately at the doorway of his living room. Silent, the Reaper had stepped behind him, glancing over at the scene he was observing: it was there that he would glimpse Park Chanyeol the first time. His hair, a terrible frizzy mess, bare inches from his eyes, was brushed away as he cooked over the stove, thoughtful and committed. 

“He’s cooking my favourite. Takoyaki.” The smell was glorious – and the cook moved with such practiced motions, that it was hard to see that he was actually humming the recipe beneath his lips. 

The soul’s hand lifted to his chest – where the bullet hole was present but hollow. His fingers curled as he shut his eyes momentarily, “He doesn’t know yet. I just wanted to see him, before he found out.” Kyungsoo’s eyes opened, and he blinked at the Reaper’s face.

“It’s time to go now, Do Kyungsoo.” Reaper Kim uttered, lips pressing into a firm line – before softening again as the dark haired young man responded with a nod.

“I’ll just say goodbye, is that okay?”

The Reaper found himself nodding before he’d even acknowledged the question – more transfixed by the sensation of being in a home. His eyes trailed the soul as he moved across the doorway, slow – almost _dragging_ as he approached the cook, whom was now busied hovering over the hob, stirring the sauce as he continued to whistle a light tune.

“Chanyeol,” The soul’s voice cracked as he repeated the name, “ _Chanyeol_.” His lips were blossomed into a beautiful, sad smile, “Live happily. Goodbye.” 

The cook, oblivious to it all, continued on, as the soul turned away, and moved towards the Grim Reaper, his smile remaining despite the well of tears that had formed in his eyes. “Let’s go now,” he managed, “We can go.” 

They travelled to the Reaper’s tearoom. Each one was different and distinct to a Grim Reaper. Others were more traditional, choosing cafe and family home-styles, whilst others catered to a more unique audience (he’d heard of one Reaper choosing to organise his tearoom within a _football arena_.) This Reaper, was far more of the traditional sort, and chose to model his workplace on a beautiful German library. He liked to think that the quietness and familiarity it exuded helped to calm souls. 

He had recruited Do Kyungsoo in that very tearoom. After reciting the Reaper’s welcoming pledge (as natural to him as his afternoon cake), he had paused, aware of the vacant look on the other’s face. It was important that the message was _comprehended_. 

“Mr Do Kyungsoo?” he questioned, eyes glancing naturally at the steaming tea that had been left untouched between them, “Do you understand what has been said?”

“Yes.” Kyungsoo had answered, the faintest light returning to his eyes as he extended a hand to grip the teacup, “I was just thinking about— your speech. You said... _when the deity deems your soul as free_. Does that really happen? Or is that just something you say to keep your souls hopeful?”

The Reaper smiled. “It’s true,” he answered, “I’ve seen it happen.”

“And when that happens. Do we get our memories back as well?”

“No.” The Reaper met the other’s eyes, recognising the dismay that crossed his expression as his gaze moved away, “Your memories will be removed. You will earn your freedom and be offered the opportunity to live a new life with a clean and pure soul.”

Kyungsoo shifted in his seat, two hands now cupping the teacup, “I see.” He paused, before smiling, as he looked up at the face of the other, “I’ll work hard then. Maybe if I’m lucky, he won’t have to wait long.” 

He drank it quickly - and barely a heartbeat later, he was reborn as a nameless Reaper.

 

It would take many years – now in fact, before Manager Kim realised that he had said _he_ won’t have the wait, instead of _I_. There was something unspeakably telling about that admission – although in truth, it resembled more of a _vow_ And now, as they were placed across each other, the situation having unraveled between them, Manager Kim concluded that Do Kyungsoo’s single choice of word that night had always been the answer to _everything_. 

He watched him, expressionless. The younger Reaper had admitted to it all. Now, he was a wreck – having focused on regaining human emotion over natural life necessities. The Reaper had admitted that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a drink of water – let alone a meal.

Thankfully, the senior Reaper nearly always brought food with him. This replenished the other, although his appetite was short-lived. He managed approximately five spoonfuls before he lowered the plate, pale hands curling as fists on the surface of his small dinner table. It was silent for a while, as the older Reaper processed all that had been said – overwhelmed, of course, but not at all surprised considering the recollections he had about the other’s recruitment.

“So, are you going to suspend me?” The young Reaper’s voice was thick with fatigue, “Or worse?”

“I should,” affirmed Manager Kim, before gesturing towards the plate of food, “You have definitely fulfilled the quota for improper conduct.”

The junior Reaper consciously managed another portion of food. With colour returning to his cheeks, his supervisor exhaled loudly, gaze lifting to the ceiling as he continued to ponder. It was a situation that demanded action; but it was obvious that warnings alone were not sufficient to ward the other away.

But that wasn’t all that he was thinking about. “So, what’s it like then?” Manager Kim’s eyes returned to the reaper once again, “Remembering?”

Instantly, Kyungsoo’s hand moved and rested on his chest, kneading it gently, “Painful. It comes in waves – like nausea. It’s excruciating one minute and then the next it’s completely still. I feel it most in my chest. It squeezes my lungs.” He inhaled deeply, “When a memory comes back, I feel like it gets _worse_. It gets heavier. I feel like I’m going to go mad.”

“I warned you.”

“You did.” Kyungsoo sat up, dark shadows bulged beneath his eyes. “I am sorry.” His bottom lip trembled, as he added a softer, “I genuinely thought I was doing what I _had_ to do.”

Manager Kim tilted his head questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“I saved Chanyeol’s life. He was supposed to die on the day specified by the name-card but I _saved_ him that night. He was going to give up on music, and I saved that too.” He paused, expression growing thoughtful, as he shook his head, “I don’t know whether I’m just saying these things because I... I _can_. But Manager Kim, I genuinely believe that all of this... is happening because someone else – out there – wants him to stay _alive_.”

The words were nonsensical to the senior Reaper. “The name cards are written by the deity, themselves, Reaper Kim. It’s not a simple change.” He uttered, affronted by the idea that something about this soul somehow set him above the many others.

“I know,” Kyungsoo answered with a nod, before sighing, “But it’s nice to think about, sometimes. Maybe it’s just because I feel like so much of me is still _tied_ to him.” 

“It’s the guilt,” Manager Kim supplied, a sad smile appearing on his lips, “That’s what ties us all here.”

“I feel so much of it,” Kyungsoo’s eyes were inevitably full of tears again as the wave of pain returned, and he found his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm as he lowered his head, wheezing, “I—It’s _unbearable_.”

The pain was blinding. Kyungsoo felt sick; and he couldn’t remember what that even meant. 

“Reaper Kim,” the senior Reaper would manage, after a few moments, overwhelmed by the sight— of the distress he’d. He said the following words, with an obvious ache in his voice, “I am officially suspending you of service. Please _rest_ and await further instructions.” 

Kyungsoo began to shake his head, “No, I have to get his name card. I have to know for sure when it happens.”

“You can’t change what’s written,” The lightest tone of frustration brushed the senior Reaper’s voice as he lifted himself away from the other, gaze still, “Please, do as you’re told, Reaper Kim. I don’t want you to go through the alternative.”

The mentioned alternative was left unspoken in the dark. In truth, Kyungsoo wasn’t sure what it meant – but it was obvious that it was an alternative that his senior would rather he didn’t face. 

*

It was bizarre to be sat in the same chair at the same policewoman’s office. So many years had passed, and yet Chanyeol still recognised it all— the decor, the atmosphere, and the anxiety that came with being questioned about something he knew minimally about. He’d driven to the station at sunrise, the memory stick tucked protectively inside his wallet. Through the hours of shock, he’d deduced that this was what Kyungsoo had instructed him to do— the final wish he had never been able to fulfil until now. 

He had cried about it a few times already. It had been so long – and only now, with this new evidence concealed safely in his pocket, did it all finally piece together. 

A tad groggy, yet still anxious, the pianist remained in the office alone, slipping between bouts of sleep and awareness Within his dream states, he heard melody after melody, and it was with his fingers lightly twitching over his jeans, that the policewoman would enter and wake him.

“Chanyeol?”

“Uh, yes.” He sat up immediately, hands rubbing against his eyes as he regarded her, “Did— did you find anything? Was it useful?” 

“Incredibly.” The policewoman’s lips curved into a bright smile, “The evidence is... key to prosecution. There are names in there that have mooted their way out – and can now be brought back for further questioning. It’s just bizarre that you found it just _now_. How can that be?”

“It was Kyungsoo.” Chanyeol admitted, fingers pulling against his hoodie sleeve as his eyes grew thoughtful, “He scribbled a note in my piano sheets – thinking I would find it. But when he disappeared, I stopped composing those pieces. I put it away. I only just started again.” 

“Well, thank goodness for that. A lot of good will come out of that evidence, Mr Park.” There, the policewoman seemed to exhale, warmth seeping into her eyes as she observed the crumpled figure of the young man, “And most of all, it clarifies that Do Kyungsoo is clear of intent of embezzlement.” 

At those words, Chanyeol found himself gasping, hands moving to cover his lips as he bowed his head forwards in delight. He bit down on his lip hard, eyes stinging and sharp - _must not cry_. Trembling, he shook his head, before lifting his gaze which grew blurry with tears, “I told you all, didn’t I? He would never do it. If anything, he was going to come clean. He just couldn’t get to you in time. I knew he was innocent. I never... Kyungsoo... he was a _good person_...” 

Away from the police station, Chanyeol bought a bouquet of white tulips and walked across to the boardwalk where he was certain he’d encountered Kyungsoo that evening. It had been the _first_ time that he’d sensed him around - and so much had transpired since then. It was funny to think how during that night, he was certain his life had almost ended – and once again, it was Kyungsoo who guided him back. 

Leaning over the railing, the pianist closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of the fresh breeze through his curl. In his mind, he pictured Kyungsoo— on that final day, at the park, with his arms around his waist and the smile on his lips. Perhaps it had all been a performance – and even then, he’d known that something was going to go wrong. He’d carried it all inside, contained it tight, behind the gleam of his eyes and the innocence of his words. Kyungsoo had been strange in the months leading up to it – but Chanyeol had ignored it because he had always been the stronger one. 

It wasn’t until he was there, crippled to oblivion by grief, that he recognised that there was no such thing as a strong person. Everyone was _weak_ ; this was why everyone needed someone. But what could he do when he had lost that someone?

Pressing the tulips to his lips, Chanyeol blinked away fresh tears. Although he wasn’t certain if he felt any less pained by the visit to the station, he hoped that somewhere out there, Kyungsoo was finally in peace.

*

 

“Can you believe it’s today?” 

Jongdae was grinning at him, gesturing towards the poster across the front of the Blossom theatre: _An audience with Park Chanyeol: A Last Autumn (One Night Only!)_. 

Time had definitely swept by quickly. Before he’d known it, the nightly compositions he’d scribbled carelessly into his book were being printed into laminated pages – and the title he’d written in pencil had been transformed into words scribed in golden ink. 

He felt proud. Yet, crossed with that pride, he felt unexplainably sad. It showed; he didn’t hide emotions very well. “It feels like I’ve waited for this night, forever.” Chanyeol admitted, managing a smile at the other as he then slung an arm over him, “Thanks for staying by me, Jongdae. You really got me here.”

“Aish, so cheesy.” The singer elbowed him slightly, “Your music, Chanyeol. It’s going to bring a lot of joy to people everywhere. You deserve, more than anyone, to have your pieces heard.” 

The words tended to comprise the same spiel he had heard from many other people. But from his close friend, it was honest and frankly, a little touching. For what had seemed like the hundredth time that day, Chanyeol found himself wiping tears away with his sleeve. Fortunately, he would hold it together in a much more convincing fashion as the preparations for the event increasingly stole his attention.

His composure was maintained until an hour before his showcase. After thanking his parents for their flowers, he had entered his dressing room alone and found himself with an enhanced awareness of _how_ alone he was. Admittedly, it was all true. He had been waiting for this day since forever. A platform like this was a dream for many aspiring musicians. But he had never imagined himself to be sat here alone – for Kyungsoo had been present in many of his daydreams involving his career. 

By now, he should be here with him. Turning his head, the pianist cast an eye over the room and imagined how Kyungsoo would be sat on a stool across him, holding his hands together, massaging his fingers and mumbling something about how he shouldn’t have spent the entire morning playing games. It was an image that made his heart _ache_ with longing, but even as the daydream faded, and he was left with the dim orange lighting of the room, he found that he couldn’t quite shake off the sense that Kyungsoo was _present_.

It wasn’t as tangible; but it was a feeling that inspired and guided him. 

Chanyeol would do it for the both of them tonight. 

 

*

The suspension had been challenging to comply with – but his health had been poor enough to ensure that most of the days that had passed were spent in recovery. 

Kyungsoo knew exactly what day it was. He’d woken up, having sensed a particularly harsh twinge in his chest as he’d stalled out of a dream. He didn’t know how to approach the situation because no matter how deeply he suppressed the thought of the pianist – an even greater need to see him came over him. 

In the end, one claimed victory.

Walking speedily to the theatre, the Reaper, pale and sickly, maneuvered through the evening city crowds, determination pulsing life through him. He focused completely on the task – barely noticing how he was shoved left and right by the huddle of figures. It was only at a single – minute – sensation that he found himself slowing down. 

A light brush of shoulders with a figure in the opposing crowd. 

Kyungsoo turned, eyes wide with shock. The face who belonged to a Kim Jongdae stared directly at him, his usual knowing smile on his lips – except, it was different. Gone was the warmth of it, the familiarity – instead it was a smile that spoke of private, constrained amusement. 

“Ah! I was just on my way to see you.” 

Even the way he spoke was different. It was courteous— rigid even.

“You,” Kyungsoo’s lips parted, “You’re not supposed to be able to see me.”

Jongdae stepped across, overlooking the look of muted terror in his eyes as he seemed to divide the bustling crowd, sending figures into moving through a tighter, protective line around them. “I can see you fine, Kyungsoo.” Now that the Reaper was closer – he spotted how the usual cheery light in Jongdae’s eyes seemed to have dimmed. “And you know perfectly well that I’m not Jongdae.”

“Are you—“

“Precisely.” A finger was raised to a lip, as Jongdae grinned, before his expression softened, as he regarded the other, “You know what people forget when they lose their souls? What it’s like to have one. A soul is an incredibly precious thing, Kyungsoo. We have to _nourish_ it. Now the world offers limitless opportunities to do that, but we don’t always grasp it.” The deity paused, his smile dimming, “Or in Chanyeol’s case, we don’t get the _chance_ to.” 

Understanding dawned on the other. “You’ve been watching over him, haven’t you?”

“Same as you.” Lightly, he smiled, “He will bring so much joy to this world. So the world beyond should wait just a tad longer.” And it was there, that Kyungsoo found himself staring at a black envelope – indicative of a name card – extended towards him. 

With trembling fingers, he accepted it.

“I’ll see you there, Kyungsoo.” 

*

The theatre was full of people. Glossy cocktail dresses and tightly fixed bow ties – crossed with the smell of expensive wine and herbs – Kyungsoo wasn’t sure he’d ever sensed so _much_ since his death. He looked around, almost panicked as he focused on the feeling of the name card in his jacket, which grounded him as he searched for the auditorium. As he moved slowly through the crowd, there was an announcement and immediately, the crowd of figures moved in one direction, sweeping him along as tickets were informally assessed and the crowd drained away from the bar. 

Inside, it was darker. People dispersed, mumbling about seating arrangements as they balanced their wine glasses in one hand. Dazed, Kyungsoo remained at the back, glancing around, as if searching for something, startled by how close people seemed. He looked around, utterly wrecked by emotion, the scene filling him with all sorts – more familiar, like sadness, yet more foreign – like _joy_. In his memories, he recalled the blurry words of long tiring nights, and the sight of the pianist slouched over his piano, head pressed against his sheet music, pencil in hand. 

He recalled how he would crouch down, peer at the peaceful curve of his lips, and lightly brush his dark hair away from his eyes. “ _It will all be worth it one day,_ ” he thought.

And it was. Kyungsoo was overwhelmed by the excitement of the crowd – the thrum of admiration they had for the young pianist who was welcomed onto the stage after a brief introduction by his agency. As he stepped across, there was instant, gracious applause from the audience, and Kyungsoo found himself stunned by the fierceness of his _own_ love for him. He felt the strength of it – a jolt of joy – which speedily coursed through him, filling his eyes with tears as he found his own hands applauding, lips parted in awe.

Dressed head-to-toe in black, Chanyeol approached the microphone stand, his heart beating at a thrilling speed.

The audience hushed as his lips parted, but the reception was warm, as he smiled his usual dimpled greeting. He glanced across, mumbling greetings and thank yous, mentioning his teachers, his parents, his friends, and his kind friends at the orchestra whom had come to accompany some of his compositions. The words were rehearsed but genuine, and as the talk wound down, he found the emotion he had suppressed creeping up from behind the practiced ease, culminating in a stutter as his gaze swept the front row. 

It felt suddenly like the crowd had faded; the theatre was empty; and he was back in his apartment, listening to a soft timid voice practicing his voice mail. His fingers touched cold piano keys, following the melody of the other’s voice, his head cloudy with love. _Happy or sad_ , the voice in his head murmured, _you’ll be in every melody I write for the rest of my life_... 

“So,” The word hung, breathy and rushed as he leaned closer into the microphone, “Finally, when I announced the title of my showcase, the first question I was asked was _why autumn?_ And I thought I’d address that tonight.” He paused again, large eyes gleaming fondly, “The pieces I wrote tonight were for someone couldn’t be with us today. An... they’d always ask me the same thing too: _why autumn?_ Why are you dedicating your big debut pieces to a season. It’s unoriginal, right? Why not something cool like a zodiac sign or an art piece?” 

Instantly, there was soft laughter from the crowd. Chanyeol laughed too, before he continued, voice cracking slightly as he spoke, “The answer that I never got to give was... I named it because I love music, but I... I loved _you_ most. And when I compose, it’s you that’s on my mind. Autumn, to me, meant _you_. I met you in autumn. I lost you in autumn. And I hope one day, we’ll meet again in autumn too.” 

Tears formed in Chanyeol’s eyes as he then took a deep bow. The crowd thanked him with energetic applause, the weight of his words felt only by those that truly heard. He approached his piano feeling empty, but loved. And there, he began to play, all senses and thoughts draining away as the darkness of the theatre overwhelmed his vision.

His compositions were a story – their story - entwined with soft marked melodies. Some were light and cheery; whilst other times measures would descend into low, sombre tones. The pianist played passionately, collecting the sacrifices, the hurt, and the loss and sharing them with his audience. There was something both crushing and _stunning_ about his transparency: the tears that stained his cheeks, the bruises on his fingertips, the exhaustion that darkened his eyes. It moved his audience; almost as much as his compositions. 

When his finger brushed the final key, there was silence.

Applause.

Witnessing the entire thing from the back of the theatre was Kyungsoo, who was filled with so much pride, he felt unable to move. He had watched it all, as tightly gripped by the pianist’s work as the rest of the theatre. There were times – when he saw the pain and exertion in the pianist’s eyes, when the magical quality of the performance would weaken – but it was quick to recover, because he saw how profoundly the pianist relished every second of it.

All of it; worth it all. 

As figures stood up from their seats, his view of the pianist was obscured. By the time he was able to view the stage again, the stage was empty.

People began to move around him. Dazed, Kyungsoo lifted himself to his feet and then recalled the name card in his pocket. Panicked, he quickly reached for it, trembling as he lifted the card out of the black envelope and glanced at the words within, his attention taken particularly by the second line which had been absent before, 

_PARK, CHANYEOL – BLOSSOM THEATRE – 7PM –  
MULTIPLE STAB WOUNDS _

The clock placed in the bar, just visible from where he was stood and could see through the exit where people were shuffling out, indicated the time he had left:

_6:45pm_

Panic struck him. He recalled Manager Kim’s words: the tone of acceptance, of defeat. But he’d known – he’d always _felt_ that there had been something greater overseeing these series of events. Perhaps it was a need to bring justice to the souls he had wronged, or to deepen the pain of his punishment. 

Irrespective of the reason, this was not about him and his fate anymore. 

*

Chanyeol leaned against the brick wall behind him, observing the way his fingers trembled as he admired them in mid-air, a pale smile on his lips. His heart was still thudding hard, the adrenaline from the performance as well as the positive response of his audience still fresh on his mind. He could still hear the rush of the applause – and see the brightness in his parents’ eyes, their pride filling him with unspeakable joy.

He’d taken a step outside to the back of his theatre to calm his heart and reflect. It had gone well, perfectly even, and at the thought of it, he found himself fishing out his wallet and retrieving the photograph that had now resided permanently inside. Kyungsoo’s face had inspired him to continue – through the difficult parts. He smiled warmly, observing the dim lamplight shining on their faces, as he placed it back inside his pocket.

It was there that a figure appeared out of nowhere – a dim, visible shape that swiped the item out of his hand. The pianist acted out of complete instinct, yelling out a , “Hey!” as he stepped out to grab it, only to gasp as he felt a sharp pain go through his gut. He stumbled back, gasping as the blade was removed, and braced himself as it was lifted again – 

The back door opened, and at the sight of the scene, Kyungsoo ran forwards, sending the figure sprawling against the alley – the glint of the blade catching the light as it clattered to the ground.

“No!” he managed in muted horror, too stunned too yell as he watched Chanyeol’s figure stagger backwards, falling against the wall, crumpled.

He approached him, horrified, before turning on his heel to try and get enough attention to help – 

“Kyungsoo.”

It was barely a whisper – lifted only by the startling silence of the alley.

Kyungsoo froze and turned, slowly, expression almost _enchanted_ by the sound of his name on the other’s lips as he was met by the sight of the other’s eyes on him. As their gazes met, Chanyeol’s eyes, which had been so paralysed by pain, suddenly brightened.

“No,” Kyungsoo choked out, in disbelief, “You’re n—not dead yet. I still have t—time...” Frantically, he searched for the envelope, only to be stunned again as Chanyeol repeated his name.

“Kyungsoo.” His voice was more solid this time, more audible. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

This time his attention was his. Kyungsoo approached him, almost falling to his knees, as their eyes remained on each other, clinging and committing to the reality before them - “It’s me,” was all Kyungsoo could manage, “I’m here.”

Chanyeol trembled at the words – managing a smile through his awe. 

Reaching out, Kyungsoo risked a touch, and at the sensation of flesh, he almost gasped, fingers instantly reaching out to hold Chanyeol’s face, the warmth of it almost enough to stunt him into silence,

“Did you see me play?” Chanyeol asked weakly.

“I saw,” Kyungsoo answered, “You were _amazing_.” 

“I wrote... for you.” Chanyeol pressed resolutely, “Every note.”

Kyungsoo nodded, too overwhelmed to say anything – reduced to smiles, tears, and touches. 

He couldn’t be dead yet. The warmth of his skin was so dizzying. But Kyungsoo was aware of the time that was slipping between his fingertips, and at the sight of Chanyeol’s bloodied hands against his gut, he found himself moving away,

“I have to get help. I have to go.”

Instantly, an arm gripped his – tight. 

“Kyungs—soo, _no_. Stay.”

The Reaper could think of nothing more he would’ve wanted to do.

“I c—cant—“ 

“Wait, wait.” The pianist’s expression softened, tearful as he continued to smile, “I—I cleared your name. I want you t—to know.” His grip tightened on him, “Kyungsoo, I forgive you.” 

At the words, Kyungsoo sobbed. And the sound – and action – was so _human_ \- that he realised that he could fully see through the cloud of feelings he felt. He felt relieved, thoroughly _relieved_ , and so, so loved.

Shocked by his reaction, the pianist shook his head, “No, n—no—“

His words were interrupted by Kyungsoo’s fingers brushing against his face, holding it in a tender embrace, “In our next life, I’m going to open a restaurant. You’re going to visit me, and I’m going to cook for us. And we’ll meet there again, okay?” 

Chanyeol grinned as he nodded. 

“So, live happily.” Kyungsoo’s expression crumpled, recalling then how he’d said goodbye to him the first time – how deeply he had wished that he could hear him; how he’d wished for a goodbye that the other could carry with peace.

Now, finally, he had the chance. “Live happily, Chanyeol.” He repeated softly, “We’ll find each other again.” 

It was there that he sensed movement behind him and at the sign of an approaching reaper, he felt himself grow cold. 

“No, no.” His grasp on the other loosened, as he realised then that Chanyeol’s head had drooped to the side, “No—it’s not _time_...”

The Reaper reached him, eyes soft and familiar.

“Do Kyungsoo? I am here for you.”

In that same moment, the doors to the theatre burst open, and figures came stumbling out, running straight for Chanyeol. Within the blur of motion, Chanyeol found his eyes opening a final time, glimpsing Kyungsoo’s final traces as his silhouette disappeared into the shadows.

*

 

“How many lives have I lived?”

“You are on your first.” 

The weight of the words crushed him. Kyungsoo burst into a sob, wiping his eyes as he glanced across – at Manager Kim – unable to comprehend the strangeness of the situation. His life as a Reaper had felt so certain – so everlasting. To now be set on the other side of the table to his colleague was beyond perplexing. Fortunately, it wasn’t a one-sided sentiment. Manager Kim looked overwhelmed; _moved_ even.

“He is on his first life, also.” Manager Kim added, having anticipated the query that would follow.

“I’d hoped.” Kyungsoo answered, as he found himself smiling again, “It’s _funny_. I only remember the vaguest things about this life. Horrible things. But I’m stuck with this feeling of hope in my chest.” 

Admittedly, it was a much kinder feeling that the mind-numbing guilt he’d tolerated the past few weeks. Although, it was a feeling all the same which meant that he felt too small to carry its burden. 

“I think that was your salvation, Reaper Kim— or Mr Do Kyungsoo,” affirmed the senior Reaper, as he beckoned his teapot over, the liquid steaming and aromatic as he poured it into a cup. “You are a hopeful person. And I understand that this is a quality that is viewed as a great loss by those watching from above.” 

Unable to take his eyes off the marble cup, Kyungsoo felt himself soften - _calm_ \- in the presence of the liquid. Despite the many souls he’d poured for, he’d never been exposed to it in this way before. It was utterly enriching - and it took a good moment of solid thought to stop himself from reaching across the table and draining it in its entirety. The cup meant freedom. It was all that his soul – any soul - craved the most.

“They’re too merciful,” the soul suddenly found himself stating, as he met the cold eyes of the Reaper. His eyes – once as cold, now gleaming with human remorse, “I don’t deserve to start again.” 

“You have served your punishment, Reaper Kim.” Manager Kim pronounced, reaching forwards instead and pushing the teacup closer to his hand, “And everyone who does, deserves their freedom.” 

The words were slowly starting to make sense. The presence of the liquid, combined with the softening of his heart, began to instill within the soul an unmentionable feeling of _peace_. Suddenly, all the guilt and the sadness, and the hope and the joys, began to ease into the background – deafened by the overriding need to hold his freedom in his hands and capture it whole.

But not all of his feelings could disappear so easily.

“When it’s Chanyeol’s time, please grant him a happier life.” The soul nodded, reaching for the cup and exhaling gently, “Hopefully, I will find him there.” 

The Reaper offered a rare smile as he nodded,

“I’ll pass on the message.” 

“Goodbye Manager Kim. Thank you for everything.” 

For the first time in a while, Kyungsoo’s eyes were free of tears. He felt no pain; no weight. He drank the tea: the temperature and flavour, as perfect as he envisaged. His tasted of fruits – exotic ones that were sweet and sharp. 

As his eyes flickered shut, and his lips broadened into a smile, he saw the briefest flashes of white – and beyond it, guiding him to the center, was a sequence of familiar melodies.

*

 

Aged hands drummed against the wooden table in a non-committal rhythm. Restless, the soul combined this fidgeting with a continuous turn of his head – as if expecting or searching for an item. 

“So, I’m really dead, huh?” pressed an eighty year old, Park Chanyeol, towards the man across him, dressed top to toe in black.

“Indeed.” 

He was pouring a tea of sorts. Chanyeol wasn’t a huge tea-drinker - but the cup across him was a nudge _irresistible_ if he was to describe it in a single word. The smell reminded him of his grandparent’s chai. The special cup that they brewed in a specific way back in his childhood. He wasn’t sure this was something they would be able to obtain easily.

But then again; this was the _after-life_.

“I can’t believe this—“ a hand thumped against his empty, non-beating chest, “really gave up on me. I thought I had a few years left.”

It was true. He’d lived his long life with much vigor – as an accomplished musician should. Just at the thought of it, the elderly man found himself smiling, thinking of all that he had done, and the joy that he had brought to so many. It had been his final thought; or at least he had been dreaming of it when he passed. It was this sense of warmth which he carried in his spirit – and it was going to go wonderful with the tea.

As the Reaper spoke, offering him a speech which he mostly followed, the pianist found himself holding up a hand to interrupt, 

“Did you say if I drink this... that I _forget_ this life?” 

“Yes,” the Reaper answered, “You will forget and move on free to your next life.”

“But how am I supposed to find him then?” 

At his admission, Chanyeol was surprised to see a solid response from the Reaper across him – a look of amusement, _surprise_ even. 

“You knew him right!” The man chuckled, “Don’t lie. He must’ve passed through... one of these too.”

“All this time,” the Reaper shook his head, “All this time, and you remember.” 

Chanyeol smiled tenderly. He had lived happily – as promised. He didn’t live with grief or regrets, or the same darkness he’d carried in his heart during those challenging years in his youth. However, it didn’t mean that he forgot; it merely meant that he didn’t live with shadows. Instead, he grew up, guided by _light_ and inspiration. _Hope_. He grew up knowing he had to live his dreams because they were _his_ dreams also.

He loved of course. He loved others; and made his life fuller by doing so. However, his music had only ever been meant for one – and for each autumn of his life until his death, he wrote and dedicated a piece to the one he lost.

“He’s been waiting a long time.” He nodded, “I think I’ll skip the drink for now.”

The tea lost its glamour – overtaken by the anticipation of being reunited by a lost loved one. He was then introduced to a yellow door – friendly, with the promise of a new life behind. Chanyeol stood behind it – the creases and nicks of old age suddenly fading, returning him to his youthful, more familiar form. 

“He won’t remember.” The Reaper called out to him – just as Chanyeol’s fingers were placed around the handle, “He won’t remember you, in the next life.”

“But he’ll be there.” He answered thoughtfully, “and I won’t lose him this time.”

 

 

After a momentary breath, Chanyeol pushed the door open. As he stepped in, he saw nothing but light and he found himself stretching out a hand, fingertips motioning in mid-air. It was _blinding_ ; and he shut his eyes – only his fingers remaining outstretched as it continued to linger, searching, sensing – 

And then it caught something.

With warm sunlight touching his cheeks, Chanyeol opened his eyes to the sight of a crisp autumn leaf between his fingertips. 

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, my lovelies. The end of my sad tale - and firstly, I'd like to say, I am genuinely sorry it has taken me this long - it's just been such a hellhole with uni as such but I miss miss miss writing so much. Also, contrary to what I have just said above, this is not the end.
> 
> Of course not. I have a short 1-chaptered sequel planned for this story, so don't despair, that ending was definitely not one deserved of the wait I put us all through c: I have loved writing this story so much. Not only is it my first chansoo, but it was my first writing project in a long time so it's meant a lot to finish it, hee. 
> 
> But yes, thanks so much for reading. Have a fabulous day everyone. Keep an eye out for that short sequel piece!


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